


Lone Star CSI

by impxra



Category: CSI: Crime Scene Investigation
Genre: M/M, Nick working through trauma only to be saddled with more, Serial Killers, mentions of sexual abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:53:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 22,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24862606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impxra/pseuds/impxra
Summary: Greg’s not convinced he’s just paranoid about a serial killer targeting men who look like Nick. Meanwhile, Nick has his hands full processing his trauma post-burial, when a voice from his past comes back to haunt him.
Relationships: Greg Sanders/Nick Stokes
Comments: 21
Kudos: 27





	1. one.

“You want breakfast? Or dinner, whatever the hell.” Warrick offers, arm around his shoulders. Nick gives him a strained smile, already anticipating crashing on his couch at home, getting as much sleep as he can. Lately, it’s not a lot.

“Nah, man, go ahead. I’ve got a Cowboys game to watch.”

Warrick hesitates, in the lobby of the crime lab, before shaking his head. “You and your damn Cowboys. Bledsoe’s making them look better.”

Shit-talker, but Nick knows that’s how Warrick shows he cares. Nick has never responded to overt questions of _how are you?_ He appreciates him, and claps Warrick on the shoulder. “Give me a break, Bledsoe’s on his way out. I never gave a shit about the Patriots.”

Warrick laughs. “See ya, Nick. Don’t call me up when you see how shitty your team is.” He turns on his heel to drop off the case file at Grissom’s desk; Griss off in the morgue with Greg. Nick will probably get roped in the case once he gets back.

“Stokes!” Judy’s voice has Nick reeling to the front desk; he gives her as much of a smile as he can, tired and a little irritated despite closing the case. Teenage victim, seduced by her tutor that was a senior at UNLV. He’d taken her Sweet Sixteen charm bracelet, and Nick wonders if her parents would even want it back. 

Judy holds out an envelope for him. “Addressed to the lab. I’m hoping it’s nothing bad.” She adds, a little hesitant. Nick frowns, heart rate picking up. Anything, he’d give _anything_ to have the rest of his life be quiet and without much action. Chase some bad guys, give some closure, write a couple articles for forensic journals, an ornithology magazine. It’d be easy.

He looks at the return address.

_Mabel Bassett Correctional Center. McLoud, Oklahoma._

Nothing’s easy. 

“Thanks, Judy.” He says, distant in his own ears. The trek to the locker room feels like he’s lucid dreaming. He doesn’t see anything around him, doesn’t hear anything. Nick can only think that maybe an old case is coming to stab him in the back. When he worked in Dallas, it wasn’t unheard of to have people sent to Oklahoma. His father might have to get involved, then, which was exactly the reason he’d left Texas in the first place.

Nick sits on the bench in front of his locker, tears open the envelope, and as soon as he sees the name at the bottom of the letter, immediately wishes he hadn’t.

He fights the urge to vomit, and loses.

It’s going to be a long shift.

Even prior to the field, Greg would get… feelings about cases. Connect the dots with what evidence he processed, what he could glean from the CSIs. He’s always had weird dreams about his job. The average dreams, repeating the everyday mundane tasks, but then… he’d dream about a victim, or the perpetrator, sometimes alive, sometimes dead. He’d dream about DNA sequences and murder weapons, blood under fingernails, bruises on wrists.

The details have gotten more… surreal since becoming a Level One CSI.

Now Greg is running on five hours of sleep and those uneasy dreams. Grissom and he are working pre-op on the body of a white male, mid-thirties, close cropped dark hair, about five-foot-eleven.

It’s the most bare bones way to describe a victim, a _person_ , and as the camera flash contrasts bruising against a pale throat, Greg knows, has _known_ , the basic description can be applied to Nick.

“Contusions are consistent with manual strangulation.” He finally notes, causing Grissom to look over the edge of his glasses. Grissom retains his ability to make Greg nervous, but Greg presses on in the direction he wants his supervisor to look in. “You mentioned at the scene-”

“The possibility of a serial is high, yes. But first, the differences between this man, and the previous two.” Grissom waves his hand over the face. “Signs of struggle, crescent shaped abrasions on the cheek, and one near the mouth. Care to venture a guess?” His lips purse in the way that means _I’m evaluating you._ The mouth pout of judgement.

Sometimes, Greg hates him. “Fingernails. The attacker’s. One hand on the neck, the other over his mouth.” He leans down to inspect those abrasions: they seem slightly deeper than any old fingernail marks. A harder grip? Longer nails? “These aren’t just scratches, though. This guy was held in place. That seems inconsistent with the other two: the drugs in their system took care of most of their reflexes.”

Grissom nods, and, while looking over the left abrasion, goes still. “Greg, hand me those forceps, will you?”

He does as asked, and watches Grissom open the man’s mouth, his stomach seizing. Greg isn’t sick, but this feels _wrong_. He’s got static in his head from a shitty night, and this sense of apprehension tangling in his ribs. 

Grissom removes a foreign object from the victim’s throat, revealing it to Greg.

“Torso, arm, and now-”

Greg took the photographs for the first case, saw the photos from the second, and remembers the dislocated doll parts. “Ken’s got a head.” He mumbles.

The static in his brain grows louder.

“Cath- Cath, _please_ , I’m _fine_.”

She shoves the travel size bottle of mouthwash (conjured up from a desk drawer) in Nick’s hand, which, okay, _yeah,_ is much appreciated. She had shuffled him into the break room, and he twists the cap off over the sink, ready to get rid of the acid taste until he can get home to properly brush his teeth.

“You’re not fine if you’re getting sick at work, Nicky.” Catherine points out, and Nick spits into the sink, wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

He’d stuck the letter into the inner pocket.

“I’m headed out. Probably a one time thing. I just need some sleep.” He's already stepping out into the hall, but Catherine is Catherine, and she follows him.

“And have you been getting any?”

He turns on her, snapping. “No, I haven’t, what do you think?” She startles, and presses her tongue against the inside of her cheek, shaking her head at him.

“I want to help. You know that, right?” Her eyes are roaming over his face, and Nick wonders what he looks like. Dark circles, sweat on his temples, watery eyes. Damn, he’s always felt too much, always let his emotions swell up in his eyes. Whether he was pissed or sad or happy, he was always such a-

“I can’t tell you about it right now, Cath.” Nick’s voice is tight, his twang thicker with emotion. “I just wanna go home.”

And she gets that look, the same one she had when he talked about the babysitter, and it’s not her fault that he can’t stand that look of utter shock, because it’s his, right? It’s his fault for everything?

Catherine nods, runs a hand over his shoulder. “Alright, Nicky, alright. I’ll see you later.”

He leaves, and he knows he’s going to cry in his car, and he knows he’s going to cry when he gets home, but as long as he doesn’t cry on the clock, it’ll be fine.

He’ll be fine.


	2. two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague and direct mentions of past sexual abuse.

Grissom and Greg’s crime scene was as follows: at 10:43PM the previous night, the body was spotted by the owner of an antique store in the Arts District. He’d been closing up and leaving out the back when, upon turning to exit the alley, he saw the victim laid out on display. The victim, tagged by Doc Robbins as John Doe #27, had his arms pressed flat against his sides, laid in a rigid pose

The killer left his eyes open.

Greg has the crime scene photographs he’d taken now spread out over the backlit table, a department case folder in his hand. This contains photos from the first victim: telling the exact same story. That victim, later identified as Anthony Pechard, was found eyes open, arms pressed at his sides, on a residential street in Southridge. No witnesses had seen any vehicle or anyone out of place. Pechard had the torso of a Ken doll in one of his hands.

The second case file lies unopened, at the end of the table, but Greg knows what he’ll find. The scene: behind a laundromat in Downtown. Micah Hargensen was laid out in front of the dumpster. A late-night attendee recalled seeing a dark pickup truck take off just before LVPD were called. They couldn’t remember a license plate, or even a partial. The right arm of a Ken doll was found in Hargensen’s mouth, able to be recovered at the scene, not stuck in the throat as with John Doe #27.

Greg presses the heel of his palm against his forehead. There were no connections between the victims; Pechard was born and raised in Vegas. Hargensen had come up on a vacation from South Carolina, booked a room at the Marriott. Pechard had a casual boyfriend, and he mixed drinks on weekends when he didn’t run valet on the Strip. Hargensen was divorced from a wife he’d married at 20, and was getting ready to have his 12-year-old son live with him full time. 

Victim number three remained a John Doe for now, unless Mandy suddenly popped in with his fingerprints. Greg blinks his vision back into focus, feeling no less hopeless, but what can he do? 

Timeline. Focus on the timeline. 

He was assigned the first case, because Nick… it had been the day after Nick was released from the hospital. Greg had bought some random PlayStation 2 game he knew Nick didn’t have yet, and a stupid gift basket. It had come with a little plush bear. Nick had smiled and said thank you. All Greg could register were the healing ant bites all over him.

That, and the glances Nick’s parents kept giving him. It had been a short visit.

So the first victim’s case was without Nick, and Grissom was working with the team back together again. No more swing shift. Catherine would still take the reins when Grissom let them fall to the wayside. 

Greg had photographed the body, and Dave had been there to pry open the rigid hand to reveal the Ken torso. That had been… fun.

The second vic, Hargensen, was found about two months after. Grissom had taken Warrick out to that one. Greg worked a trick roll that shift, wherein the lovely working girl actually turned herself in for a separate crime: running down her pimp with her client’s stolen car.

Even the crimes in Vegas come with a different flair.

With this killer, the flair wasn’t only in the display of the body. The victims were seriously juiced up, their tox screens coming back with signs of Lorazepam and Flunitrazepam: sedatives that were popular for any number of crimes, particularly sexual assault. It came to be clear that the vics were kidnapped, drugged, and held for up to three days before their deaths.

So far, all the victims are within a good six month time frame. Averaging out the time between body dumps, there’s reason to believe they have about six or seven weeks until the next body.

Someone knocks on the doorway. “Hey.”

Greg’s heart startles, though he only shakes his head and blinks his eyes rapidly. “Hm?”

Henry half-smiles. “Got your tox results. Headed over to Grissom’s office to show you guys.”

Ah, the days of presenting evidence to the ever critical eye of the lord of the lab. “Does it match the cocktails the other two vics had in their systems?” Greg asks once out in the hall. Henry lets out an amused huff. 

“You wish, Sanders. Seems like your killer screwed up on this guy.”

Mistakes, mistakes, mistakes. First sign of a struggling victim likely due to a botched drug job. Why on the third try, and not the first? 

There’s too many pieces to this investigation that refuse to fit together. Greg doesn’t want to wait for a fourth body to show up to do his job, and neither does Grissom.

Greg hopes to connect the victims together, and soon.

He turned thirty-four this year, and has a nightlight. Nick can’t stand the dark anymore, yet years of graveyard had him used to the blinds shading his house, so he could feign a sleep schedule. He has no energy to pretend now. He’s just tired.

When Nick got home, the first thing he did was lock his door and go into his bedroom, almost clawing his jacket off. The letter he read through again, and he wanted to tear it up. He itched to do it, shook with want. 

He let it fall to the floor and he dry-heaved into his toilet instead. 

Now, he’s sitting in his dark bedroom, save for the cheap nightlight he has plugged in, back against the drawers of his nightstand. Elbows on his knees, one hand covering his face.

Nick feels like he hasn’t been able to catch a break for at least a year. Maybe even longer. He’s had guns drawn on him, a stalker that threw him out of a window and killed a woman for him, and it really is just how he is, right? Whether or not Walter Gordon cared which CSI came out to his staged scene, Nick thinks he was the only one meant for the box.

It just makes sense for _her_ to crop back up.

She’s in prison. He’ll have to look her up to see exactly what charges she got, how much time she’s serving. He’s… satisfied. Maybe. Mostly he’s scared, and he hates that, too. His stalker Crane already engraved a sense of paranoia in Nick about his own home. He’d always been a private person, anyway, for a number of reasons. 

It wasn’t his home address she’d found, though. That was one thing he could be grateful for. But his _work,_ where only Catherine had any idea about this woman. What if Warrick had stuck around for Nick to get the letter? Or if Sara had been in the locker room? 

When Nick had told Catherine, it had felt… important. She just couldn’t see why he was so mad about the likelihood of that boy’s therapist abusing him, why it stuck with him. Catherine knowing made the most sense, anyway: she was a mom, she took cases with kids to heart, as well. That didn’t mean that every time after, when Catherine would give him a knowing look, a flash of sorrow, that Nick wasn’t ashamed, because he was. 

Exactly the reason he couldn’t tell Warrick or Sara. Or… Greg, even. Right?

He turns his head awkwardly to see the alarm clock he has at his bedside. Nearing 9:30 in the morning… he needs to keep something down, brush his teeth, and try to sleep for the next shift.

Two out of three will have to work.

“No Benzos in his system?” Greg’s leaning against one of the chairs in front of Grissom’s desk. He earns a look for this, but doesn’t mind it. Henry shrugs.

“Nope. Quite the blood alcohol level, though. Easier to get a hold of than prescriptions.” He hands over the results to Grissom, bouncing a little. Grissom scans it, hands it over to Greg.

“Blood alcohol levels are valid up to 48 hours after that. Tox screen will show that?” Grissom directs this at Henry, while Greg flips the pages.

“ _Fuck_.” Greg swears venomously, hearing Grissom’s noise of disapproval. “You were thinking it.” He defends, all the while shaking his head. Blood Alcohol Content of .19, and accounting for the hours that passed between death and the autopsy - John Doe was likely forcibly drunk for a few days. He tosses the results on Grissom’s desk, and Henry takes that as his cue to go.

“The different drug abuse upsets you?”

“It deviates from the pattern, Grissom. Isn’t that upsetting to _you?_ You like patterns.” Greg unceremoniously flops into the seat he was leaning against. Grissom puts his palms up, turning his chair ever so slightly. 

“I like _puzzles_ , Greg. This case is very much so a puzzle. I think you’re focusing too much on getting to the big picture. You start from the outside in with a puzzle. We need the frame.” Grissom says these things, like he’s a fortune cookie, like he’s Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and Greg is too tired for it. Maybe he’s paranoid, but the doll thing creeps him out, the lifeless eyes being forced open creeps him out, and he’s irritated that each victim is an imitation of Nick’s features.

“This really doesn’t bother you? The fact that these guys all fit Nick’s basic description?” And it is, admittedly, out of left field for Greg to bring it up. No mention of the victims’ looks prior to this.

Grissom’s eyebrows raise. “A lot of men fit Nick’s description.” Which is one of the dumbest things Greg’s ever heard in his _life_ , because most men he knows would give anything to look like Nick. A lot would give anything to tie him up, too, but that’s because Greg knows a lot of people who are into that.

“A lot of men aren’t Nick, Grissom. It’s just…”

“Greg, there hasn’t been any one of us in here that didn’t share similarities with a victim. Catherine sees herself in every dancer we come across-”

“This is _different_ , though, this is body type, this is hair color-“

Grissom stops him, that stern tone he has ( _It’s the dad voice,_ Greg’s brain supplies, which is something to unpack at a later date.) cutting straight to the point. “Greg, do you want this case?”

He feels his neck flush with shame, with some anger. All he wants is to help. “Yes.”

“Then I suggest you keep personal feelings out of it. We’re all worried about Nick, but this is not a threat he has to worry about. Got it?”

Greg looks down like a kid in the principal’s office, pinches the bridge of his nose in between his index finger and thumb. “Yeah, yeah, alright.”

Softer now, Grissom’s voice suggests going home and getting some rest. So, he calls it a shift.

In the parking lot, before driving out, Greg rests his forehead against the wheel. He’s overthinking the situation, right? Getting impatient in a job that requires religious amounts of patience? Right?

He remembers his weird dreams, remembers the way his heart seized when the live feed of Nick in a glass coffin switched on screen, and sighs.

Personal feelings. 

Nick Stokes does not want to exist.

Neither does this John Doe, apparently. Fingerprints aren’t in the system, though Mandy’s trying to pull some strings, no wallet on the body (or found in the nearby dumpster, apparently). Nick has laid out the clothes the vic was found in, though there’s nothing there for trace. Still, he inspects, he checks. If he’s thorough, this will take a few hours.

The victim’s work boots he was found in are brand new. Nick turns the right one over to look at the sole: squeaky clean. He was dressed in these, possibly after death had occurred. The jeans aren’t broken in, still the same crisp blue you’d see on the first day you’d buy a pair. Collared shirt, same story. 

He notes the brands. A long shot, but maybe if they can trace the purchases, they can get a description on the killer. 

“Knock-knock.”

Nick looks up to see Mandy, big smile on her round face. He manages a small one for her, obliges in her joke.

“Who’s there?”

She beams. “Your victim. Christopher Taylor got his fingerprints taken for job-screening.” 

He’s already tossing his gloves, prepared to return the clothes to evidence after talking with Griss, who _should_ be in his office. Mandy goes ahead of him into the hall, and they traverse the lab. “Where did our Chris work?”

“Domestic violence shelter. I had just expanded the search to social work.”

Fervently, Nick thanks her, just as his cell phone vibrates in his pocket. In the display screen is “MOM”. Ice replaces the blood in Nick’s veins, thoughts kicked up in speed. _Shit_. 

“Uh, Mandy, I have to take this. Let Grissom know, I’ll catch up later.”

She blinks. “Are you okay, Stokes?”

He waves her off, already heading for the break room, lying. “I forgot to wish my mom a happy birthday.”

He’s biting his tongue as he opens his phone, closing the break room door behind him. The twang in his voice is obvious. “Mama?”

Jillian Stokes sighs in relief. “Nick! I thought you were avoiding me.”

He could only try. “Sorry. I’m at work- what are you doing up so late- early?” He looks at the clock, nearing 3AM, meaning in Dallas it’s nearly five.

“I’ve got court at eight, sweetheart. I just wanted to check in, you know…”

After the box, his parents had stuck around for two weeks. Outside of holidays, it was the most time Nick had spent around them since moving to Vegas. “I’m doing well, Mama. I’m at work; there’s a tough case.”

“What about other things? Did you go to that doctor I found?” She now asks in a gentler tone, and Nick’s heart twists. She wanted him to see a therapist, had talked it over with him without Cisco there. Nick didn’t think his dad would be upset about it, though maybe disappointed. Cowboys were tough, the Stokes men were tougher.

He runs a hand over his face. The mandatory sessions after his reinstatement were enough for him. He’d passed the psych eval, didn’t he? “Work set me up with a counselor.” And Nick’s not entirely lying.

“Oh, that’s good. I want you to feel better, baby.” 

He thinks about his two hours of sleep, dreaming about ants under his skin, about suffocating. “I do, too.”

Hodges cracks open the door, and the glare Nick sends him has Hodges quickly shutting it back behind him. His mom mentions a few more things, like his sister being up from Corpus Christi, his dad thinking about retiring again (he won’t), and finally she tells Nick she loves him and to call her soon.

Nick’s leaning against the counter when he hangs up, slipping his phone into his pocket. He’s wearing the lab coat from examining evidence, but he had brought that letter into work. He felt… sick, thinking of leaving it out at home. He wanted it on him while he figured out what to do about it.

Nick had been under the assumption, for a horrible moment, that his parents had been sent a letter, too. His father makes Dallas Morning News often enough, as well as his mother. Public archives would connect him with his family easily enough.

He doesn’t want his parents to know, but he knows he’s better off telling somebody, despite the fact he’s been put in a corner about it. 

Nick exits the breakroom, throwing a half-hearted apology towards Hodges. He’ll return evidence, get some coffee, look up the address of Christopher Taylor’s work, and then… he’ll find Catherine. He can tell Catherine.

He spots Grissom in DNA, hunched over a microscope while Wendy explains something. He’s always admired Grissom, even when Grissom’s critiqued him, even when Griss has been clear he didn’t think Nick was ready for solos, ready for Level Three. He remembers speaking into that tape recorder in the box, and he still feels the same way.

Nick doesn’t want to disappoint Grissom.

He replaces his gloves, carefully logs back Christopher Taylor’s clothes, brings Mandy a cup of coffee, too, when he goes to get the shelter address. She doesn’t try to flirt with him, as is their usual rapport, because he’s quiet. Nick trades the lab coat for his jacket, letter and all tucked away. He sees Catherine owning the hall, bickering with Grissom, if her head shaking is any indication. Alright. He can do this. He wants to do this.

“Hey, Cath.” He walks briskly to catch up with his supervisors. Griss looks him over, and Nick already knows the dark circles give his health status away. Catherine eyes Grissom sideways, but listens. “I uh, I need… I need to talk to both of you. Please.”

This is different than when he first told Catherine. She’d been pissed at his going off track, acting like he was working their investigation on his own. She’d been ready to take him off of it, and he just couldn’t let that happen. Grissom points towards his office with the reading glasses in his hand. “Alright, Nicky.”

And Grissom sits behind his desk, Catherine leaning against his desk with one thigh pressed against it, arms folded. Nick rubs at his hands, already wondering if he can back out of this. Instead, he plucks the letter out of his jacket, holding it tightly in his left hand, and instead of looking at Grissom or Catherine’s faces, he stares at the horse vertebrae on Grissom’s desk. He can check their reactions later; right now, he has to get the words out.

“When I was nine, my parents went out on a date night,” Nick starts, hears Catherine’s breath intake. She knows this, but Griss doesn’t. “My regular babysitter, one of my older sister’s friends, couldn’t make it. The one they found was last minute. She…” He clears his throat, blinks away his blurred vision. “Her name was Melissa, and she, um. She molested me.”

That’s the first time he’s ever said that out loud. He couldn’t say that word when first telling Catherine. “I waited in my bedroom, after, alone, for her to leave. I didn’t see her again after that, and I didn’t tell my parents.” Finally, Nick breaks enough to wipe at his nose, and unfolds the letter.

“Nick…” Grissom starts, and Nick shakes his head.

“Melissa sent me a letter to the lab yesterday.” His voice is thick, deeper than usual, because he’s trying, and it’s one of the hardest things he’s ever done. “She’s- she’s serving time, in Oklahoma.” He clears his throat again. “She’s asking for my forgiveness. I think she tried contacting other boys.” And he laughs, without any humor, and finally looks up. 

Grissom’s jaw is tight, and Nick’s heart sinks. “Nick, you don’t have to tell her what she wants to hear. You don’t have to tell her anything. She doesn’t deserve it.”

Nick wipes at his face. “I know that, I know that-”

“Nicky,” Catherine starts, visibly fighting the urge to go over to comfort him. He appreciates her refraining from doing so; he doesn’t think he would welcome the touch of a friend right now. “Why did you want to tell us?”

“‘Cause someone else has to know, and I-” He shakes his head. “I didn’t want it to be my parents.” He admits, looking down at the tight piece of paper. He still feels like tearing it up, though it’s a dull urge. “I thought if she could find where I work, it wasn’t a stretch, you know…”

A few moments silence pass, and Nick shrugs. Grissom speaks again.

“You trust us more, right now.”

He nods his head. “Yeah, yeah I do.”

Grissom nods, too. “Okay. Shift’s almost over, do you want to go out for breakfast?”

Nick smiles, a little tight, a little sad. “No thanks, Griss. I want to try and get some sleep for once.”

Catherine gives him a short smile, too. “What do you want to do with that letter?”

He shrugs. “I dunno yet. Get rid of it. I just…” He trails off, thinking of Warrick running around somewhere on a scene in Henderson, of Sara in the garage, working with Catherine on a body-in-the-trunk case. He thinks of a plush bear he stuck in his locker, of Greg. “I’m working on it, you know? I can’t talk to a shrink.” And he probably never will, because telling people he’s worked with for nearly a decade has taken so much out of him, much less a stranger being privy to all this.

“Would you let us know what you want to do?” Griss asks, as Nick folds up his letter, returning it once more to his pocket. 

“Yeah,” He says, wiping his eyes once more, just to be sure. “Yeah, I will.”

He’s exhausted, and even though he wishes this fixed his sleeping problem, he knows he won’t get much sleep again. But he does feel better, in a way. He needed this, right?

 _Yeah,_ Nick thinks, _I can handle this_. 

When he returns to the locker room, Greg is frowning into the mirror he stuck into his locker, before catching sight of Nick in the doorway. He turns around, a tentative smile on his face.

“Hey, Nick.” And Nick must look a little rough, because Greg’s eyes roam his face a few seconds longer. “Um, headed home?”

“Yeah,” Nick answers, remembering how his mom had asked if Greg was a _good friend_ back in the hospital, how his dad had saw those bleached streaks and chuckled about it. Something stirs in his chest, warm and a little anxious, but Nick takes the jump.

“You wanna go to the diner?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I welcome feedback! You can also send me your comment through Tumblr, my blog is spikeysanders,  
> I hope to deal with Nick's past assault with respect, as I have been speaking with a close friend who is an abuse survivor about various things.


	3. three.

Greg makes the astute observation that Nick looks like shit.

It doesn’t take a criminalist to realize that; there might as well be additions to the neon signage of Las Vegas on Nick’s dark circles. Either he hasn’t been sleeping at all, or he sleeps entirely too little. It’s not Greg’s recurring issue of maybe six hours at a time, it’s completely different territory.

Right now, they’re squeezed into a booth at Frank’s. Nick didn’t bother with smooth talking the waitress, he pretty much forewent the usual charm of his altogether. Greg had ordered pancakes, bacon, eggs, and a coffee. Nick had skipped over all heavy items and went for toast and a cup of black. It’s a little out of the blue for them to hang out. It’s not like they aren’t _friends_ , but once upon a time, in the lab rat days, Greg had thought…

Well, he thought a lot of things. He likes being friends with Nick, can carve out some happiness with that. He just wishes he didn’t fumble so much.

Nick says a thick _thank you_ to the waitress when she brings out their coffee and food. Greg tentatively cuts a bite of his stack of pancakes, before setting down the fork.

“Alright, man, I’m confused.”

Nick quits snapping the sugar packet he has in his hands. “You’re confused? About what, G?”

He could laugh, but doesn’t. Instead, Greg gestures vaguely between them. “Look, I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay, because that’s a stupid question.” He can’t ignore the wince he gets in response. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to, like, tell me anything. About… the Walter Gordon case. ‘Cause that’s up to you, you know.”

Nick’s smiles come in many forms, and most can break Greg’s heart, but this one’s just sad. The lines in Nick’s face are generally fascinating, handsome, yet today he looks _exhausted_. It hurts to see him look that way. “Look, Greg. I didn’t just ask you out- out for breakfast, just ‘cause you were in the locker room.”

Like he wouldn’t have asked Warrick before him. Greg doesn’t get how masculine, football-convo friendships operate, but there’s some bitterness about it. Warrick should be here in the booth. Greg’s not… Greg didn’t even start as part of the _team_. However, if Nick says so, Greg will believe it.

Somewhat.

Nick wipes a hand over his face, holding it over his mouth, looking out the glass storefront, before dropping his hands down to his cup of coffee. “You saw me in the hospital.”

He’s not making sense. “Everyone went and saw you. Even Ecklie.” 

“I just… there’s something I wanna say, okay? It’s not about… when I was buried. I want to eat first, I want _you_ to eat first before I say it. Talk about other things, ‘cause it’s been awhile.”

Greg nods slowly, picking up his fork again. The pancakes will get cold. He gets about halfway done with those, not commenting on how Nick isn’t touching his toast, just nursing his coffee. Instead, he says he’s thinking about writing an article on DNA collection in the field and the techniques of analysis that could be utilized in a more mobile setting.

“Oh yeah?” Nick says, genuinely grinning, albeit more into his coffee than at him. “And how much ass kissing for Ecklie would that entail?”

He waves this off. “It’s all _theoretical_ , Nicky, and it would be the Sheriff’s ass, actually. Could be a fun conference talk, though.”

His diner companion hums in thought. “You haven’t even been to a forensics conference yet, anyway.”

Greg’s digging into his eggs, after giving them a dose of salt. “Grissom wants one of you guys to go with me. Need a chaperone to the prom.” Now this is _better_ , this is familiar territory, though it took a reminder of the map to traverse this. Some of the tension in his shoulders releases. It feels good to talk with Nick.

“I bet you were too cool for prom, actually.” Nick teases.

Greg’s ears warm, and he takes his time chewing a piece of bacon. “Well, I didn’t go to my Senior Prom ‘cause I graduated early-”

“Bragging.”

He ignores this. “And I showed up to Junior Prom with purple hair and eyeshadow, so. You can imagine how that went over with most of the crowd.” Greg shrugs, recalling that he barely stayed before dinner was served. Most of his friends then had bailed on the dance, anyway.

“I left both of my proms early. And no, Sanders, I wasn’t Prom King.” Nick says, tapping his left middle finger against his cup. He’s wearing one of his thick silver rings, one in the shape of a wolf’s head. Greg catches himself eyeing Nick’s hands from time to time, and has always wondered whether the rings were gifts or if Nick picks them out for himself.

“Sure you weren’t.” Is all Greg says, and finishes his bacon. By this time, the diner is getting more patrons for breakfast, and once the check is dropped off (taken care of by Greg before Nick can say anything about it), Greg’s had a nice morning. 

But something’s still not right. Nick’s talkativeness has fallen as quickly as it rose. Greg meant what he said- Nick doesn’t have to tell him anything. He doesn’t owe Greg that, and really, Greg has no right to ask him for it.

“Do you wanna call it a day?” He tries to give an opportunity to leave, if Nick wants. Though, if Nick says it’s not about the Gordon case, Greg can’t place what else would have Nick looking the way he did in the locker room. Red-rimmed eyes and all.

“I…” Nick shakes his head, leans forward, and immediately reels back. “I told you I wanted to say something.”

“But I’m saying you don’t need to.”

Nick raps his knuckles on the tabletop, before a hand ducks into his jacket. “I told Cath and Grissom before I went off shift.” He pulls out a piece of paper, staring at it, eyes shining. 

Greg’s pulse quickens with anxiety. Just as he told Nick, it’s stupid to ask if everything’s okay. “Are you sure you want to tell me?” He asks, quiet. 

Nick can only nod, before he flips over the paper, words facing the table, handing it out to Greg. He accepts it, eyes flicking upward to gauge Nick’s reactions. Nick swallows, meeting his eyes.

“Okay.” Greg nods, and turns over the paper, noticing its folds, the wrinkles from where it’s been held in a grip. 

_Nick Stokes,_

_You probably don’t remember me by name, but you remember me as someone who hurt you. It’s been years, and I see you’ve gone on with your life, grown up and all._

_What happened to you is something that has happened before and after, to others. I did that, and it bothers me that I did. I’m now making amends, because I’m now serving time, and that time has made me realize I’ve been cruel and emotionally unhinged. I want to heal from that, so I am asking for your forgiveness, even though it’s hard. This pain has to pass. You were so young and I ruined a little boy._

_I’m being punished for the hurt I’ve caused others, but there are more I want to say sorry to. I want to be able to be born again. I just need this. I need to say I’m sorry, and I need your forgiveness._

_Melissa_

For what has to be an eternity, but is maybe a minute, he doesn’t breathe. The words are blunt, in a neat cursive, and they’re _nauseating_. If they mean what he thinks they mean…

“Oh.” Is the only sound he can breathe out, mind racing.

“I was nine.” Is all he gets in reply. Nick’s sitting there, completely still, and Greg feels like a selfish _idiot_ , having been jealous of Warrick less than thirty minutes before, when Nick’s-

“You trust me with this.” And it’s not a question.

Nick nods, not having shed a tear, though he looks… uncomfortably in pain. Greg holds out the letter, hating this _Melissa_ with every fiber of his being.

“You haven’t… I mean, who else-”

“Just you three.” Nick’s already folding the damn thing. Greg wonders if he’ll shred it or something. Burn it. Cauterize the wound with it. 

God, Greg is exhausted. 

Nick seems more than ready to leave, so they rise together, headed for the parking lot, where their vehicles sit side by side. That walk is silent, until Nick speaks.

“We’re okay, aren’t we?”

Greg halts in front of the hood of his car, turning sharply. “Did you think I would drop you? Over something that wasn’t your fault?”

It’s the second time Nick’s flinched this morning, though he covers it by squaring his shoulders. “I don’t know. I just don’t want you to see me like… a victim. I don’t do the therapy thing, and I just want-” Nick stops himself, shaking his head and dropping whatever trail of thought he was going down. 

Greg doesn’t take his hand, doesn’t touch his shoulders. He doesn’t know what physical comfort he can give, what comfort Nick wants. What is it that Nick wants?

“Look,” Greg starts, “You already know my couch is pretty nice. I can be there for you, I am there for you. I always have been.”

“I’m not coming over.”

Okay, that stings just a little bit, but that wasn’t what Greg had in mind. “I’m not saying today, I’m not even saying tomorrow. Just when you want. I’ll even allow football on my TV.”

Nick shows a flash of white teeth. “God forbid.”

Greg wants to find the words for how he feels, but he can’t. There’s something in the air, heavy with emotion. Static before a thunderstorm.

“I’m serious, Nicky. Anytime at all. Whatever you want.”

Nick ducks his head, walking towards his drivers side. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Greg.”

And Greg waves his goodbye at him, knowing he’ll be awake for a few more hours. What do you do with a raw moment like this? Knowing something like this about a friend? Knowing something like this about a guy like _Nick?_

There’s likely no right answer, not really. Greg’s already done what’s best: be a friend. Even though _before_ Gordon, _before_ the livestream of Nick’s slow suffocation, he didn’t act like it. 

Something’s shifted, that’s for sure.

Greg just wants Nick to feel better, and he wants to be _better_ , too.

Overtime was put in so often at the crime lab that Warrick and Nick often joked that the Day Shift was pointless. Ecklie had caught the tail end of one of those conversations and thoroughly chewed them out for it. Honestly, the jab was funnier for it: Grissom had nearly as much paperwork as Ecklie did, and often worked in the field.

Well, Grissom’s track record with deskwork wasn’t stellar, come to think of it…

Nick had spent most of the allotted graveyard hours doing his damnedest to avoid most of his team, feeling as though at any moment, someone he hadn’t told would look at him and _know._ He wasted time making copies of the serial’s two previous case files. He bugged Mandy for a bit about partials on the Ken torso, which she had already tried to merge together to no success. He slipped away from her as soon as she looked ready to ask if he was doing alright.

Avoiding Catherine was a feat rarely accomplished. Thankfully, she only said, “Morning, cowboy.” around 4:30, and asked what he thought about pigeons.

“Pigeons?” He had asked, giving it some thought. “They’re a little stupid, but I feed some when I go for a jog in the park.”

“What would a dead pigeon symbolize?”

Nick stared at her, and her eyes widened in a _Well?_ look. “You’ve probably confused it with a dove. Dead doves mean broken peace.”

“Thanks, bird boy.” Cath shot him a well-natured smile. She’d asked for his help on something she likely knew herself, just to tease, huh? It was welcome, as teasing hid deep affection amongst the team. On another note: what the hell did a dead bird have to do with her and Sara’s case?

He finished some paperwork, and finally quelled his curiosity about Melissa. Each inmate came with an ID number, which had been written on the envelope above the facility address. He’d never dug up anything on her before, wanting to bury his past. Now, he wanted to move on.

Melissa Hoosier. Sentenced July 2005. Possibility of parole: Not applicable at this time. Projected release date: 2015. 

Charges: lewd and lascivious molestation, multiple counts.

Nick stared at the screen, at the mugshot of her. Now in her late-40s, Melissa’s skin was etched with crows feet, frown lines, and sun damage. There were tracks from where her mascara and eyeliner had run, but there was nothing in her eyes to suggest anything other than anger. This was the woman who gave him nightmares that only subsided in college, though they never fully went away. This was the woman who asked for his forgiveness, and she was pissed about being caught.

He’s gotta get rid of that letter.

Now it’s close to ten in the morning. Nick’s in a fresh shirt and has stolen a kolache from Sara, who’s probably going to skin him alive the next time she sees him. Grissom’s driving to the shelter address Nick picked up for Chris Taylor’s place of work. It’s weird to see Griss drive - he holds the wheel precisely how the driver’s ed handbook preaches. 

“This is just the address for the storefront.” Nick realizes as they pull up, having expected something similar to a homeless shelter. 

“Works like an office. People in crisis call the hotline; there are undisclosed safehousing locations around town they can get set up in.” Grissom comments, placing the SUV in park. Nick nods in understanding.

At the front desk sits an older woman with graying roots, who looks at the pair of them with disinterest. Griss is straightforward. “May we speak with a supervisor? Perhaps the director of the shelter?”

Nick’s looking around. _Caring Hands: A Safe Harbor Center_ is painted on the left wall off the entrance. The color scheme is muted shades of yellow and that office brand of gray. The woman asks for I.D., which Grissom provides.

“You’ll talk with Sandra. She’s our executive.”

“Thank you.”

There’s a bunch of pamphlets in a display unit. Nick is a little disheartened by them, having always been confused by men who use violence on women, especially those they claim to love. One set of pamphlets catches his eye: shades of dark green, with bolded text: _Surviving Abuse as a Man._

He quits looking at those, going over to stand at Grissom’s side, leaning against the counter with one hip. “What do you know about Catherine’s dead dove?” He asks, out of place. Griss sends him a mixed look.

“Her victim was sent one in a box two weeks before the date of death.”

Acceptable answer. Nick already knows Brass will be gunning for it to be a gangster related hit. He wonders what the autopsy report said…

The receptionist leads out a woman with a head full of braids, who immediately puts out her hand to shake Grissom and Nick’s. “Sandra Davis.”

Nick likes her - she has a firm handshake. 

Griss introduces himself and Nick, stating they’re from the crime lab. “We’re unfortunately here about one of your employees.”

Sandra immediately looks crestfallen. “Oh, God. I’d heard about Chris going missing. Was he-?”

Nick nods. “He was killed, ma’am.”

Sandra shakes her head, blinking away what tears she didn’t want to shed. “It wasn’t like him to miss so many days. What is this, day five…?” She trails off, sighs. “He genuinely loved our mission here. Chris was very attentive to those in need.”

“You have direct contact with those in crisis?” Grissom asks, intrigued.

“He mainly did when it came to transportation. Chris helped a lot of people pack, but he’s done some interviews and sessions. We didn’t put him with many of the women for those, but the men really appreciated him.” Sandra puts her hands together. 

Nick, with all the grace of a bull in a china shop, bluntly goes: “So there really are male survivors?”

Sandra sets her jaw. “Domestic violence can happen to anyone, in any relationship. Chris understood that it took a lot for a man to admit when he was in trouble.”

Grissom waves Nick behind him, though he knows Nick didn’t mean any harm by that. He shuts up, feeling a little embarrassed. He understands to a degree, he just couldn’t imagine many men out there who would look for help like this. That took a lot of trust he just didn’t have for everyone.

“My apologies, Sandra. We’re actually curious about Chris’s activities after work.”

Sandra gave a curt smile. “Mr. Grissom, this is one of those jobs where you don’t really have a day off. Chris was extremely dedicated.”

Griss nods, considering he was the definition of workaholic, obsessed with every piece of the puzzle he picked up. “He didn’t go out to bars, perhaps? I’ll let you know that, at his time of death, Chris had a high alcohol level.”

She tosses some of her braids over her shoulder, shaking her head. “Chris was a recovering alcoholic. He even sponsored some of our members. I really don’t believe he would just relapse, sir. He’s been sober for over six years.”

That could mean everything or nothing. They talk for a little bit more, Sandra accepting Grissom’s request for Chris Taylor’s personnel file. She bids them a frank goodbye, asking that they please find whoever would target a man like Chris.

Outside, Nick stretches enough to pop his back, sighing, turning to Griss with his hands on his hips.

“So we got a sober guy subdued by liquor.”

Grissom lifts his shoulders, and Nick already knows what he’s thinking: follow the evidence. Whether or not the guy claimed sobriety doesn’t mean anything. He could have started drinking on his own, then forcibly kept drunk by his killer. “Every man has his vices.”

Nick squints in the late morning light. “Easy to indulge in Vegas.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really only like the first scene of this chapter, at the diner, but we gotta move forward with the case.


	4. four.

They’ve just made it back to the lab when Greg - looking like he went home, showered, and ran straight back - comes up to them. There’s a natural wave to his hair that Nick had always thought was due to styling.

“Good news.” He sounds out of breath. “I’ve spent most of my morning hounding some autoyard- guess whose car got impounded a couple days ago?”

“Christopher Taylor’s.” Nick does his best not to avoid eye contact, though Greg seems more focused on Grissom’s reaction: an eyebrow raise of _and?_

Greg dejectively (and dramatically) sighs. “I’ll prep the garage. Can I borrow someone?”

“Nick, you’re with Greg. I’ll be in my office.”

Greg gives him a half-smile, already turning on his heels for the garage. He didn’t seem to mind being paired up, though paranoia was still creeping in from Nick’s peripheral.

“Hey, Griss-” He says before he can think anything through, a hand on Grissom’s arm before he can return to the menagerie masquerading as an office. Griss searches Nick’s face intently, a crease in his brow.

“Yes?” 

“I told Greg.” Nick drops his voice lower. “I thought you might want to know.”

For a moment, Grissom looks fond, looks proud, and Nick can almost believe that. “Thank you. Let me know how he gets Catherine and Sara out of the garage.” Nick drops his head, shaking it. Damn it- he'd already forgotten about their trunk victim. Surely they’d be done processing their vehicle at this point? Maybe?

Grissom has an honest-to-God grin (well, that sly upturn of the lips) as he turns and strides off, in that sort-of-waddle way. Nick calls, “Can’t you tell Catherine-”

“Let Greg handle it!” Grissom throws up a hand, turns the corner. Nick sighs.

Warrick shows his face when Nick’s finished pulling on a jumpsuit, tugging his boot laces tight. Immediately, he clamps down in the urge to bolt for no reason. “You finally gonna clock out?”

“Can’t do that when the clock’s busted.” Warrick says, his voice raspy on the edges, low. He rubs at his eyes. “It was a cut and dry case- wife did it, having an affair with the twenty-something that set up their computer.”

Nick tries to think back. “This is the guy that was shot in the-”

“ _Yeah_. Turns out _he_ was doing the twenty-something intern at his firm.” Warrick’s unbuttoning (well, unbuttoning the _rest of_ ) his shirt, sticking that in his duffel. He trades it for a crisp, blue pinstriped one. “Whatchu all dolled up for?” He tosses his chin at Nick’s getup.

“Got a date in the garage.” 

Warrick snorts. “Cath and Sara wouldn’t let you near that. They got their dynamic duo thing going right now.”

“Well,” Nick shuts his locker, snapping the lock in place. “It’s actually with our serial vic’s car. Greg found out it got towed in.”

Warrick runs his hands through his hair, twisting a piece between his fingers near the top. “Oh ho, a date with Sanders. Tell me how he is, huh?” He sends a wink Nick’s way, immediately getting Nick to rub at his neck, flushed.

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves his friend off, hearing Warrick’s laugh bounce off the walls. A date with Greg would probably entail more than Nick would be willing to give, anyway. Nearly seven years of working with him, and Nick, despite lingering notions, is pretty sure he’s too boring with too much baggage for anything, with anybody.

Whatever. They’re friends, and Greg knows about Melissa, and it’s fine.

He’s ready to see what they can find in Christopher Taylor’s car.

Impressively, the trunk vic’s 1997 Impala is replaced when Nick walks through. A newer Honda graces the garage, and Greg is snapping on thick, black vinyl gloves. Nick’s already fighting a laugh.

“How’d you get Cath to surrender the garage?”

Reminiscent of his more performative lab rat days, Greg brings a hand up to clutch nonexistent pearls. “You know how I am with women.”

“You bribed them.”

Now Greg surrenders, flicking his wrist down casually. “Coffee and sandwiches - I know a local place. They love me there.” He’s looking over the exterior of the car with a grin, as if it’s Christmas morning and this car is wrapped up in a bow.

“Uh-huh.” Nick’s a little more skeptical, as when reading over the files from the first two vics, there wasn’t much to go off of, even from the first guy’s apartment and the second’s hotel room. But, they can’t know until they try. He circles around to the Honda’s trunk while Greg already opens the passenger door, wanting to take a preemptive look.

“What do ya wanna bet Brass thinks Sara and Catherine’s body is a mob hit?” He asks, still on that dead dove narrative. The theatricality of such an action reeks of the Vegas founding fathers, but then again, Vegas and her crimes are one of a kind.

“When doesn’t he?” Greg replies, pulling out of the car. “No outward signs of blood on the seats or floor; didn’t their guy get shot twice in the face?”

Nick pops open the trunk, though he spares a glance towards each side of the car. “Not seeing any obvious marks on the handles - won’t you double check while I see what Chris has got back here?” His partner obliges, while Nick inspects the trunk’s contents. Tire iron, car jack…

“I never saw the autopsy report from their vic- where’d you hear C.O.D?” He continues on their little thread, in between observations. 

The next few hours go that route. They spray the interior with luminol for blood residue; Greg asks about the game he’d dropped off in his hospital gift basket and Nick has to admit he hasn’t made time for anything like that. Once nothing shows up, there’s fingerprinting, which is a mess of prints likely to only belong to the car’s owner. Nick wants to know what Grissom’s initial reaction to their serial was. Greg seems hesitant, focuses on the driver’s side window.

“It was just- I don’t know. Grissom focuses on the bigger picture, you know? But if he has a theory, it’s not like he _shares_.” He sounds a touch bitter, and Nick can understand. 

“Hey, he doesn’t want to speak before the evidence does. That’s just how it is.” He reasons, though it’s pretty obvious that doesn’t mean much to Greg, ‘cause it’s something everyone in the whole lab already knows. Grissom only follows the gospel of evidence, claiming emotions can’t turn the tide of a case. Nick obviously has issues with that. He’s too empathetic, something he knows Grissom doesn’t understand. 

Greg shrugs, shaking his head. “We’re not getting anything here.” He hits the top of the car in frustration, and Nick lets him have his moment. This isn’t Greg’s first serial killer; he’d been in the lab for sprees and serials, maybe that’s why this one is affecting him so much?

Nick tosses his gloves on their worktable, next to the prints Mandy’s going to be bored by. “You got something you want to say about this case, then?”

Greg immediately turns to him, eyes roaming over. It’s not- it’s not _flirtatious_ , it’s a raw catalogue, like Greg’s filing away Nick’s exact dimensions. “Yes. No - I’m being stupid, is all. It doesn’t matter.”

Knowing all too well about being pushed when it wasn’t the time, Nick drops it. If Greg’s working out the crimes in his head, unraveling anxieties about it, he’s not going to put any pressure on him. They’re part of a team, they work together. “Let’s finish this up.” He says instead of asking why- why had Greg looked at him like that, like he was…

Nick can’t place it. Like he mattered? That’s not it, and he doesn’t want to turn over options as they work in slightly tense silence, questions left unasked and unanswered.

The mood lifts after Greg’s the one to drop off the prints. It’s nearing five in the afternoon, they both have a sheen on their skin, and Nick’s thinking about going for a burger after this, maybe, or picking up something easy to make since it’s been too long since he last used his kitchen. Greg’s humming something under his breath, and Nick can almost recall the tune as something he used to blare in the lab.

“When are you next off?” The question has Nick immediately blank, sounding so loud despite the background noise of the lab, seemingly busier in the daylight hours. He takes an embarrassing moment trying to recall his “actual” schedule. Overtime was average, despite the Sheriff bitching about overtime pay. 

Nick scratches the back of his head. “I got the next two days. I’m just gonna run some errands- why?”

Deliberately not meeting his eye, summoning that easy Sanders confidence, Greg shrugs. “I have the day after tomorrow, thought you might want to come over.”

The offer hangs in the air. Nick hasn’t gone out with anybody in months, hasn’t done anything with Warrick or Sara that wasn’t work related, and generally attempts to will himself to sleep whenever he isn’t running around chasing murder every day. On his days off he fights the urge to take his prescription pills (reasoning to himself he wasn’t actually feeling panic) and does basic chores.

“As long as there’s beer, man.” Nick answers with a slow smile, reasoning it’ll be a better way to spend his time.

It wouldn’t kill him to have a nice day once in a while.

In the summer of 1989, an old theatre in San Gabriel, California had a “noir week” where they would showcase two examples of film noir every night. Greg and his dad had gone to see most of them. Now, he has a framed poster of _A Kiss Before Dying_ in his living room and a soft spot for melodrama in crime narratives. 

Looking from the outside in, Greg is probably a few steps away from getting one of those obsessive, red-stringed cork boards. There is an obvious _story_ here, except the characters aren’t characters at all. Anthony Pechard had a boyfriend who had sought out where his ring was (no personal effects were found at his scene). Micah Hargensen had a son he took to Braves games as often as he could. Christopher Taylor helped domestic abuse survivors, for God’s sake. They were _people_ , connected by something that the CSIs could not yet see. It was driving Greg actually insane, because he thought about the case _constantly._

The doll parts, the open eyes, the brand new clothes the bodies were laid out in. No description or inclination towards a suspect at all, no hairs, no fibers pointing in the right direction - or the wrong direction, even.

So, yeah. Greg’s becoming obsessed, he’s also trying to strengthen a friendship he blames himself for letting fizzle out, and Grissom has just paged him to his office. It’s a great day.

He barely crosses the threshold before going, “I see why Catherine’s your only friend.”

Grissom frowns at him, looking over his glasses from where he is - yes - holding a Ken doll that he’s undressed and dismantled the legs off of. In an office full of insects, alive and dead, and random pickled animals (Greg makes a face at the fetal pig), it shouldn’t be the most disturbing thing. And yet…

“I wanted to see how the dolls were constructed, Greg. Observations matter.”

Greg sits in the chair, throws up his hands. “I observe that you texted me for a reason. Was it so I could question my boss’s mental state?”

Said boss sets down his toy, holds up an evidence bag. Greg’s stomach turns at the recognition of the Ken head found in Chris Taylor’s throat. “Tell me what you observe here instead.”

“ _Well_ ,” Greg begins, feeling like a bit of a smartass to cover up the anxiety he feels. This Ken has a serious parted and slicked molded hair style. “This one’s brunet, and your Ken has had a bleach job-”

“ _Greg_.”

He rolls his eyes. “This one’s likely older, though I can’t say how much. And-” Greg holds the bag closer to his eyes, looking up for a better angle, and squints. “His eyes are… brown?” Something’s off here, and Greg cocks his head. The paint job is not a factory one, a thin acrylic layer still proving too thick compared to the original.

Grissom voices it for him.

“Our killer painted Ken’s eyes brown to match our victims.”

Very carefully, Greg places the bag on the desk, mind racing. He sees the extent of Grissom’s damage, and the little outfit Ken came in laying neatly on an open copy of last month's forensics journal. Grissom’s fixation on little things like that is always intriguing. “Why’d you take apart Ken?” Construction can be his reason, but there’s also the obvious tactic of getting into the killer’s mindset, seeing how comfortable you can get. Grissom pushes up his glasses and waves a hand over the plastic body. 

“Deconstruction of an idealized masculine form. Do you know the extent of academia about children’s toys? Particularly those targeted towards young girls?” There’s an undercurrent of fascination and passion in Grissom’s tone, a change from his normal, slightly snappish and sarcastic delivery. Greg ignores this, however, and presents a possibility.

“Would you say our killer hates the vics for their masculinity, then?” They were all in good shape; Tony Pechard and Chris Taylor had local gym memberships. All three were handsome, though Greg always feels weird about that, never getting grey skin and blue lips out of his mind. “Is this a guy letting out his frustrations?” 

Expectedly, Grissom doesn’t answer that. “We don’t know for sure. Be open to the possibility of a woman, as well. These dolls are catered to a certain demographic, after all.”

“I mean, I owned She-Ra dolls as a kid. Anyone can buy anything these days.” Greg waves the gender stuff off, though he hasn’t truly given much thought to the “lady killer” idea. Shameful to his noir roots - the femme fatale’s a staple.

He wonders if Nick will be up for a movie the next evening.

Grissom nods thoughtfully, and says something Greg never, in all his life and whatever there was left of it, would have thought he’d hear out of his mouth. “I did ask for a Raggedy Ann doll when I was six.”

 _What?_ Greg can’t even picture a young Grissom, prefers to think that somewhere out there, he just sprung up into existence one day and decided to be a weird and wise forensics mentor. Having nothing of substance to say, Greg says the first thing that comes to mind. “You had toys as a kid?”

He fucks up the moment of Grissom _sharing_ human stuff like _memories_ and immediately gets a classic look of critical analysis. “I did actually have a childhood, Greg, despite the rumor mill that I was grown in a lab.”

A rumor that Greg Sanders has nothing to do with, thank you. 

He rises out of his chair, hands in surrender. “Hey, I believe you.” Spotting the head, he nods his chin towards it. “Think we should get a doll collector to see what type it is?”

Grissom smiles, thin and fleeting. “Already found one. I take it you know to put in some overtime to join me.”

Maybe he should feel pathetic for feeling a thrill every time he’s treated as a full-fledged investigator, but Greg loves it, and gives Grissom a two-fingered salute out the door. “You got it.”

The rest of his scheduled shift involves, once in the break room, bearing the frustrations of none other than Sara Sidle, who is obviously glued together with caffeine and desperation.

“Apparently being a glorified crime boss will get you off for murder, did you know that?” She aggressively opens the refrigerator, searching for one of her yogurt cups. Greg’s in a seat, reading the paper from yesterday, lamenting the fact he has to buy more coffee for the work supply. 

“I did know that, duh,” He says, finishing some fluff piece about Sheriff Atwater, earning a glare from Sara, who slumps down in a seat across from him. 

She shovels a plastic spoonful of strawberry yogurt in her mouth before talking. “Sam Braun has his hands in everything. I think Catherine’s going to-”

“Going to what?” Catherine materializes, ginger hair tied back, hard frown gracing her face. She goes over to the coffee pot and looks homicidal at its dregs.

It is nearly six, and it is too early for this. Greg now feels trapped between two women who could tear him to shreds, and he’s certainly not liking it. 

Sara, being as stubborn as the rest of his stupidly reckless team, continues. “I just wish that you could present the obvious case anyway. Braun’s a trumped up gangster-”

“No one’s saying he isn’t. It was one of his friends that pulled the trigger, he just covered it up. For once, he didn’t do it.”

Greg quietly tries to get out of his seat, attempting to make it to the door without witnessing, or causing, a scene. He barely makes it out before hearing, “It’d be easier if you’d handed off the case to someone else or just had me handle it solo-”

Yeah, Grissom can deal with _that_ fallout. Brass is probably gnawing down his teeth, allowing another Sam Braun crime to be swept away.

When the time finally comes, at a reasonable nine in the morning for a thrift store, Greg’s brushed his teeth, combed his hair and changed his shirt. The last he saw, Sara had gone home in a silent simmer, so Catherine had probably pulled rank on her. 

Grissom surprisingly has no qualms about Greg’s driving, probably because everyone knows Warrick likes to speed and Sara is overly cautious. He’s the happy medium- only presses on the gas occasionally.

Greg’s mom has a _thing_ for knickknacks, so he’s been drug to many a thrift stores, flea markets, and the like. The storefront’s pretty standard; gold paint on the window, stained wood doors. 

They walk in and are immediately met with dolls.

“Mattel rejects.” Greg says; he had a lot of girl cousins growing up, and still was never exposed to this much Barbie. Grissom makes his way for the front counter, where a woman in a bun and blue eyeshadow beams.

“Bright and early, huh, hon? How may I help you?”

Greg’s poking around, a little fascinated and a little disturbed. Despite little to no social skills, he thinks it’s fun to hear Grissom be so polite to people. 

“Good morning. My name’s Gil Grissom, with the Las Vegas Crime Lab. I was wondering if you could help me with an investigation.” 

Greg smiles to himself, eyes on a heinous “Western Stampin' Ken” - before hearing Grissom say his name and loitering closer to his supervisor. The woman is shown the evidence bag and she slips on a pair of readers, perched at the bridge of her nose. 

“Oh no, no.” She immediately gives Grissom a glare. “I sure hope you had nothing to do with this shoddy paint job. On a Ken… such good shape, too.”

“We’re just interested if you could tell us what kind of Ken this one was originally.”

She shrugs. “Without the outfit ain’t much good. I’d venture a guess… the eyebrows and face mold…” She makes a series of tsking noises. “He has to be one of the seventies’ dolls. Maybe a Talking Busy or a Live Action.”

There’s a whole language of dolls Greg doesn’t understand but is delighted by. “You’re that sure?” He can’t hide his fascination.

She seems to appreciate that. “Of course! One of my customers only deals in mint-condition Kens - the box and everything. He has nearly every one made up until 1990.”

Grissom nods towards their evidence. “That doll is an older make?”

She hands it back over. “Pretty obvious- the hair, the vinyl color. I love the seventies Barbie best, but you can’t hide that orange tan.” Awkwardly, she laughs. “The Kens can be rare, but they really don’t sell for a ton of cash.”

“How much?” Grissom’s probably shooting for a short list of dealers and collectors. 

The woman shrugs. “Couple hundred to maybe eight or nine. Kenny boy doesn’t sell as well as his sweetheart.”

Well, so much for that. Grissom spends a few extra minutes just browsing, the bell chiming when a casual shopper arrives. Greg sees a blonde immediately head for the counter. He leans toward Grissom.

“Do you really think we can narrow down a suspect with the Ken doll?”

Grissom shrugs, waving a short goodbye towards the shopkeeper. “I believe it was time well spent. People don’t normally destroy things they collect.”

People don’t normally go on serial murders, either, but…

“I’m gonna clock out when we get back.” Greg says instead, looking back at the store. “I just don’t understand the doll parts.”

Grissom swings open the SUV’s passenger door. “They don’t want us to understand them yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did end this and the last chapter pretty similarly and from the bottom of my heart: my bad.  
> Yes, all the Ken dolls mentioned exist, and yes I want to own them.  
> I also would like to say that I do like mentioning the other cases going on at the time, since even on the show, there were other crimes to focus on despite the serial cases.


	5. five.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vague mentions of past drug use.

_He keeps having to process doll heads, over and over. He’s back to wearing a lab coat, and there’s muffled noises coming from outside the glass of the DNA lab. He turns to see who needs him to run something, but can’t make out anyone from the blurred shapes they take. He looks back down only to realize he’s in the morgue, standing at the open locker of a sheet-covered cadaver. He’s supposed to see who it is, but he really doesn’t want to._

_The noise gets louder, and maybe there’s someone trying to tell him something, but he reaching for the sheet covering the victim’s face-_

Greg’s eyes open up to his bedroom wall, the spasms of his breath jolting him to roll over onto his back. He closes his eyes tightly, feeling like his heart has grown claws and is gripping his ribcage, thrashing wildly.

They’re not _nightmares_ , he can’t think of them as nightmares. They’re unsettling, yes, but that’s not how the majority of his dreams about cases are. Most of the time, he wakes up with a blanket of sorrow drawn over him, just the simple feeling of being sad for the victim, for their family. It’s not a great way to enjoy your day off-

 _Shit._ He puts a hand over his face and groans. Right. It’s his day off, and Nick will be here later this afternoon. That in itself is not the problem. The problem is that his heart feels like it’s going to split his chest open, and Greg isn’t sure if his nerves will settle down to a reasonable level.

He wants to see Nick, though, and forces himself out of bed to brush his teeth. He’s going to have to put a couple hours of attention into his apartment, too, because throwing oneself into a job with insanely non-consistent hours catches up. The fridge and pantry will have to be dealt with as well.

 _And coffee for the break room,_ Greg adds to his mental list, wondering how the day shift survives on what the police department gets for their own crew. No wonder Ecklie’s team acts like assholes - they don’t have a decent stock of caffeine.

He puts on a t-shirt and shorts to run his errands, deciding, for some reason in _Las Vegas mid-morning traffic_ , that he needs to go to a supermarket that’s twenty minutes away, instead of the modest grocery that’s closer to his place. Greg turns up his stereo getting caught up in traffic, chanting an inner mantra that at least he’s not in Los Angeles. His anxiety has calmed down somewhat from this morning, yet he can’t ignore the slight shake to his fingers.

It’s during this lovely bit of traffic that he gets a text. Being at a standstill, he has no problem flipping his phone open to see a message from Grissom, workaholic that he is.

_Taylor’s body released tomorrow._

Greg really doesn’t know what to think about that. He knows that Chris Taylor’s next-of-kin was a sister in Carson, likely where the funeral will be held. Despite knowing that there was nothing else they need from Taylor’s body, there’s a finality that a funeral entails that Greg thinks is cruelly ironic. There’s some closure, yet no _closed case_. A murderer is out there, and that’s the thing that gets under Greg’s skin, easily the thing that made being a CSI addicting: chasing justice. Not every case came with these complications, yet nearly each one had someone with blood on their hands, desperate to wash it away without consequences.

Christ, he doesn’t need to think, not on his goddamn day off.

Once Greg finally gets to the store, he makes quick work of it. He picks up a pretty decent margarita mix, though Greg knows Nick will want the staple beer. He gets a six pack, though he thinks he knows Nick well enough that he’ll probably bring over the beer himself.

Then again, does Greg have any right to say he knows Nick at all? Because honestly, does he? 

_Yes and no._ Greg reasons to himself, placing a too-pricey bottle of tequila into his basket. He knows Nick’s got six older siblings, mostly sisters. He claims he doesn’t enjoy country music, but Greg’s worked a case at a cowboy dive with him, and has seen him mouthing the words along to George Strait while dusting for prints. His accent gets thicker when he’s tipsy, he’ll sometimes chew on the end of his straws, he’ll rub at the palm of his hand during conversations, more frequent on longer shifts, like it’ll keep him focused.

But Greg doesn’t know what Nick’s favorite movie is, how he likes his eggs in the morning, or why he likes the Dallas Cowboys so much. He can’t tell you why Nick’s friends with him or why Nick can’t see that he needs help. Help that isn’t… whatever tonight’s going to be. 

Greg’s been standing in the liquor aisle, staring at labels that don’t register to him at all. He makes his way to the last few items he needs, stretching out the ache that had started in his legs.

He can’t make Nick talk to anyone he doesn’t want to, and he doesn’t have any right to ask that of him. Besides, Greg’s half-certain it’s the first time since Walter Gordon that Nick’s made time for anything other than work. He’s had breakfast with the team probably once or twice, but those are generally short, everyone a little burnt out and going over their work.

It’ll be okay. Okay is about all Greg can offer.

The drive back is mercifully less hellish than before. He takes care of the groceries when he gets home, puts a CD in his living room stereo that’ll motivate him into doing some chores, eats a sandwich while leaning against the kitchen counter, thinking about possible dinner options. He wonders if he can talk Nick into Chinese. He vacuums the carpet that he kind of hates, having grown up with hardwood and linoleum flooring, and does a load of laundry. 

This kills the better part of two hours, and Greg just resets his music, not in the mood to have a repeat of the overthinking at the store. He tucks away his copied reports of their serial case, in an antique writing desk he bought on a whim, which now adorns the hallway that leads to his bedroom.

Taking work home wasn’t a concern Greg had as a lab tech, though he’d still get those dreams, some twisted feelings in his gut about cases. He’d think about work from time to time, particularly if it had bothered him, or if it had-

He shakes his head, able to embarrass himself in his own home, completely _alone_. His feelings for Nick did affect how he thought about cases, because he was constantly curious about why Nick felt certain ways about certain cases. Knowing now, about that… _woman_ , just makes him sad, thinking back. Investigations about kids were upsetting anyway, but Nick…

Greg turns off his stereo, opting for a headset instead, deciding to pick out a movie, because while they could have a good time with his PlayStation, he’s not particularly in the mood.

Has nothing to do with the fact he fucked up his second controller by stepping on it.

Outside of his obsessive noir collection, with its designated shelf space, his DVD collection is kind of pathetic. He has a handful of martial arts films, a few action, some comedy. He’s got quite the number of thrillers - _The Silence of the Lambs, Basic Instinct, One Hour Photo_ \- but chooses from the not-crime-collection. Maybe he should pick up more romcoms, because yeah, he enjoys _You’ve Got Mail_ like any other human being. 

Does he have any popcorn?

A movie night obviously needs popcorn, and Greg makes a run to the smaller chain supermarket closer to home. This second soirée out in the public kills enough time (he got distracted by the cheap paperbacks near the front cash registers) to change his shirt before Nick texts that he’s on his way. 

He paces his kitchen, digging out his cocktail shaker. Greg’s been fighting nerves all day, because he feels like he can easily lose this trust Nick’s put in him. Not about- about this _Melissa_ , but isn’t this misplaced? 

_Maybe shut up, Sanders. You overthink too much._

Greg squeezes a lime slice like it insulted his mother and gets juice on his hand, which he wipes off on his shirt like a heathen. He’s barely shaken his margarita when there’s a knock at his door.

“Just a sec!” He cuts through the living room, giving it a once over- acceptable, more than, really. 

When he opens the door, Nick sends him an easy smile, almost negating the fact he’s carrying a paper grocery bag. “Hey.”

“Hey, yourself. Did you bring stuff?” Greg steps aside, letting Nick through. “I picked up a six pack for you this morning.”

“Oh, um-” Nick’s looking around for a place to set whatever he’s brought, then seemingly remembers where the kitchen is. He’s only been at this “new” place twice before; Greg had learned a new appreciation for privacy after the lab explosion. The aftercare and misery of healing was kind of… pathetic, very exposing with a roommate. “I didn’t want to come empty handed, but I bought beer anyway. And Doritos.”

Greg perks at that, picking up his still chilled shaker and getting back to his drink. Doritos sound a little more appealing than popcorn. “That’s fine. More the merrier- I didn’t have any in my fridge.” 

Nick’s removing his black jacket, laying it over one of the two chairs at Greg’s dinky little table. For some reason, lately, it’s like Nick forgot what size t-shirt he wears, so the sleeves of his plain blue shirt are tight on his arms, across his chest. Greg pointedly focuses on not overfilling his glass. “Too good for Coors?” Nick asks, on noticing the shaker. Greg shrugs.

“I learned how to mix when I lived in New York. And I spent too much on this stupid tequila, so I might as well.” He gets out a glass - a plain one, ‘cause he’s not quite the type to keep margarita glasses on hand - and nods towards the fridge. “You can grab a cold one, put the ones you bought in there anyway.”

“Thanks.”

They spend a few amiable moments in silence, taking care of their alcohol. Nick pops the tab with one of Greg’s butter knives, looking for a moment at the floor before speaking.

“You hear about that funeral?” He’s quiet, hand on the counter.

Greg nods. “Yeah. I just… it sucks that it doesn’t mean it’s _over._ For his family. For us.”

Nick taps his finger against his bottle, shrugs. “Best crime lab in the country. We’ll get it.”

 _Second best_ , Greg can’t help but correct, but it’s a sweet moment, a sweet sentiment, and Greg wants to believe that they will, because he’s been dreaming, he’s been feeling like he’s going to get lost in this case if something doesn’t break.

He takes a drink, changing the subject. “You up for a movie tonight? I’ve gotta get a new controller for my PS, so that’s what we got.” 

Nick takes the bag of Doritos and his beer, shrugging. “Oh, I’m sure, you just didn’t want me to kick your ass.”

He rolls his eyes, letting Nick go sit while he gets a bowl for the chips. “Sure.” He calls from the kitchen, soon joining him. He sets his drink on a coaster, seeing that Nick’s already done the same with his beer - Southern manners - and goes to his DVD player.

“Now, the choices…” He begins, as Nick opens the Cool Ranch and dumps them in the bowl, already sneaking a few. “I have about a million crime movies-”

“I’m surprised, I really am.”

“Or, and I’m sure you’ll love this, I dug up my copy of Dazed and Confused.” He’s already fighting a laugh when Nick groans.

“He went to fuckin’ _U.T._ ” And Greg doesn’t care about the deep rooted rivalries Texas colleges have, but it’s entertaining. He bites down on his tongue as he grins, brandishing his next choice.

“Enter the Dragon. A classic- and I only have like, five other movies that aren’t-”

“Melodramatic?” There’s that teasing in Nick’s voice that Greg’s relearning, because it’s comfortably warm, because he’s missed it. Greg goes ahead and puts in the movie. 

The bowl rests between where they’re seated, Nick cradling his beer between his hands. He’s a bit hunched over, wildly different to the way Greg’s kicked up his feet on the edge of the coffee table, but after the first beer and half the chips, Nick visibly relaxes.

“Do you even like martial arts movies?” Greg asks, completely out of left field while Nick’s taking a swig from his second bottle. 

“I _like_ them,” Nick shrugs, rolling his shoulders back, sinking into the couch cushion. “It ain’t my favorite-”

Oh he is _charmed_ by the twang a little alcohol brings out in Nick, which scares Greg somewhat. “Ain’t.” He repeats, stupidly, causing Nick to thump him on the knee. He lightly smacks away his hand, attention half on whatever John Saxon is saying. Nick’s obviously more so looking around the room than the TV.

“You cleaned today?”

“I do tend to do that on occasion, thank you. As if I didn’t keep that lab _pristine._ ” Greg says, a little loud and whiny, shoving a couple chips in his mouth. 

Nick sinks back into the cushion. “Just wondering how you spent your day, G. Nothing wild, then.”

A little ruffled, Greg makes a face. “Yeah, right, I’m going to spend my day at, like- Lady Heather’s, or something. I have things to do.” There’s a bitterness about how some of his colleagues treat him, ‘cause of how he acted in DNA, like a dumbass, feigning a carefree lifestyle. The truth was, while Greg did club a little too much, getting third-degree burns across his back, threading up his neck, really had him reevaluate his priorities.

“Didn’t mean nothin’, just wondered if you… read. Or something. I don’t know.” Nick mutters to his beer, and Greg sighs. 

“I cleaned and listened to music. Pretty average day off, except right about now I’d usually be watching something like… Lifetime. Or the History Channel.” Greg says, immediately feeling old. He gets up to grab a pair of shot glasses and the tequila, hearing Nick’s soft laughter.

His eyes widen when Greg sets everything down on the table. “I can’t do too many a’those,” He says slowly, though he sits up. Greg waves his hand around, meaning absolutely nothing.

“This isn’t your frat house, I won’t be keeping a scoreboard.” They also aren’t gonna be doing the lick-the-salt, suck-the-lime bit, because Greg’s experiences with that always got out of hand. Stick the salt to someone’s neck, suck the lime someone else holds out for you… it’s sexually charged.

He holds out a shot for Nick, who holds it, eyes crinkled at their corners. Greg clinks them together. “Salud.”

The tequila burns hot, and Greg settles himself with his legs under the coffee table, back against the couch. His right shoulder is at Nick’s knee. About half an hour and four more shots each later, Nick’s seated on the floor, too. They’ve long since stopped paying attention to Bruce Lee.

“You know… I should have bought more chips.” Nick’s been pouting since the Doritos have disappeared from the bowl. “Nacho. Classic.”

Greg hums, content and warm. Nick’s ears and neck are attractively flushed. “We didn’t eat dinner.”

Nick shrugs, leaning his body backward and then letting himself lay on the carpet, watching the ceiling fan. They’re nowhere near wasted, just tipsy- enough that Greg’s pretty sure he’s going to have a sleepover tonight.

He snorts at his own thoughts. “You really don’t want anything?”

Nick lolls his head back and forth, while Greg slowly pushes himself off the floor, ready to take out the DVD and turn off the set for tonight. 

He sort of jumps when Nick suddenly asks. “What’s in your stereo?”

Greg feels a tiny bit more sober, apprehension in his voice. “Uh, you know, what I… usually play. To get chores done.” He turns to see that Nick’s propped himself up on one elbow, his stupid t-shirt exposing a collarbone.

Scandalous. Greg clears his throat.

“Play it, Greggo. I wanna know.”

Greg knows what track stopped the CD at. It’s the most damning one. He turns on his stereo, hears the whirring noise of it reading the disc, and sighs as he presses play.

Nick breaks into laughter that Greg hasn’t heard in a long time. “Oh, man-”

Greg has a reputation to maintain, and he flops on the floor next to Nick with his hands up. “Please. You can’t tell Warrick.”

Britney Spears continues to fill the room, the riff of _Toxic_ making Greg feel embarrassed like he hasn’t felt in awhile. Nick shakes his head, now at that silent laughter stage, and Greg breaks into a grin.

“You- you lil _punk rocker_ -”

“It’s a catchy album. It helps me _clean._ ” He gives up. Sara and Warrick are gonna give him so much shit. He joins Nick in staring at his ceiling, letting him catch his breath. 

They sit there long enough for the next song to start, and Greg, brain still fluid and without most of his filter, opens his mouth.

“You know, this was kind of a date. Sorry it’s so lame.”

Nick is silent beside him. He doesn’t venture a look.

“I needed it.” And it’s so quiet, Greg almost didn’t hear it. 

“I meant it, you know.” Greg’s ceiling is that infuriating popcorn texture, with tacky lil flecks of glitter. “That you can come over whenever. Don’t even need a reason.”

Nick exhales deeply through his nose, and Greg turns his head to look at him. He’s brought his hands up to his face, turning his ring over between his right index and thumb. He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t speak for long enough that Britney Spears has brought in Madonna to be the finale track, long enough that Greg’s been wondering if they’re gonna sleep on the floor. 

“I keep putting that letter in my fuckin’ pocket, man.” Nick breaks his silence, dropping his hands to his chest, squeezing his eye shut. Greg takes his time to replies to that, cautious and slow.

“What do you want to do with it?” He settles on asking, and Nick finally turns to look at him, too. His eyes are red-rimmed, the dark circles as prominent as they’ve ever been.

“I thought about writing to her.” He admits, and Greg rolls over to prop himself up on his elbow, frowning.

“Are you sure about that?” He’s not going to stop him, but he can admit that the idea of Nick replying to someone that- that _molested_ him worries Greg. Nick shakes his head, eyes still tracking Greg’s movement.

“I don’t even want her to know I got it. I want- I need it gone. I don’t wanna look at it no more.”

Nick jolts a little when Greg suddenly gets on his feet, though his head and stomach immediately protest such a move. Fuck.

He closes his eyes, takes a second. Okay. 

“I have a lighter around here, somewhere.” Greg holds out his hand to Nick, who huffs a humored breath.

“Ya got fire alarms, Greg. I’m not burnin’ down your apartment.” There’s an awkward moment where Nick can’t catch his balance, and Greg holds him up for a second. Nick clears his throat.

“We’ll do it in the sink, _duh._ ” He’s already leading the way to the kitchen, where Nick stops at his jacket, pulling out the creased paper from an inner pocket. He anxiously unfolds it again.

“Hey,” Greg says, not unkindly, but with some warning. He knows he has a lighter in one of these drawers. Nick shakes his head, folding it back up into quarters, going to lean over the sink.

Greg finally finds his old Zippo (he used to think it made him look cool), waves it triumphantly. “Benefits of a former smoking habit.”

“You used to smoke?” Nick leans into his space, their shoulders brushing. Greg shrugs.

“There was a phase I had- especially between undergrad and graduate work- I just… I tried a lot of, uh, stuff.” He’s nervous talking about that - albeit brief - period in his life where he was chasing highs, testing limits. Yet Nick’s here, open and beautiful and honest, so how can Greg not return some of that? “Stopped smoking a couple years back.”

“Hm.” Nick holds up his letter. “Smoke this instead.” It’s teasing, but his voice is a little tight.

Greg obliges, snapping his Zippo open, holding the flame to the corner, letting it spread. 

Nick drops the burning paper once the flame is close enough to kiss his fingers. They both watch it curl and blacken.

On the edge of the counter, where Greg’s gripping the linoleum, Nick rests his thumb over his, and Greg lets out a breath.

The smoke alarm in the kitchen goes off anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally this chapter was going to be longer, but I've decided to move the next scene to Chapter Six.  
> Yes I love Britney Spears, yes I think Greg would listen to her. And yes, I did pepper in some past drug experimentation for backstory.  
> Thank y'all for the kudos and comments, I appreciate them more than I can say!


	6. six.

Nick wants to say burning Melissa’s plea for forgiveness allowed him to have some sort of epiphany. Come to the realization that his life wasn’t just one event after another; that he was now _cured_ of whatever was fucked up about him.

That’s not how real life works. He burns the letter with Greg next to him, clock nearing ten at night. He touches Greg’s hand, feels relief, thinks about how tired he is and how ridiculous it is that Britney Spears had been playing less than ten minutes ago.

He doesn’t feel cured, or whatever, but he feels okay.

After Greg gets his kitchen smoke alarm settled, by fanning a dish towel around, he turns to Nick and the remains of wispy black paper. “You can, um-” He turns on the sink, and Nick wishes he could rinse away his past just as easily as the remnants go down the drain. “If you don’t mind, I can dig up some blankets and stuff for the couch.”

Nick processes what Greg’s offering, because he’s intoxicated and a little slow right now, and notices that his host is bouncing his leg as he talks. “You were gonna say you could sleep on the couch, right?” He ventures a guess, leaning forward. 

“No. Well, I was thinking it, but it sounds stupid and weird out loud, so obviously that offer’s rescinded- it was never made in the first place-”

Nick hums, pushing off the counter to stretch his shoulders. “Forgot ‘boutcha ramblin’ when you get a little bit of alcohol in ya.”

Greg scoffs, strutting out of the kitchen and disappearing past the living room into the corridor. Nick leans against the wall, somewhat awkward about the sleepover situation. Something Greg said earlier is stuck in his head, though he keeps getting distracted.

Something about a date. Greg admitted this night was kind of a date.

It stings a little, bittersweet, like lemonade that’s just the wrong side of sour. 

He rubs his socks on the carpet, pops his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He needs some mouthwash, Nick thinks. Coors, tequila, and Doritos aren’t exactly the ingredients for good breath.

Greg comes back with two pillows, a sheet and a blanket. Nick moves quick to try and set up his own spot for the night, but Greg checks him with his shoulder. “Oh my God- let me do something for you, please.” Nick surrenders, palms out, cheeks a little warm.

“You’ve already done a lot, man.” He watches as Greg fusses around, tucking the sheet into the cushions. He leans up, hands on his hips, runs a hand through unruly hair. 

“Okay, there we go. I don’t know if you want to shower or anything, but I have bathroom stuff- like, a new toothbrush that you can just have. I know I need to take care of that tequila taste.” For theatrics, Greg gives a shudder and Nick smiles.

“Yeah. Lead the way.”

He takes care of business - the toothbrush he opened up was purple - and Greg says he’s gonna shower, so he apologizes preemptively for the noise.

“Nah, man, it’s fine.” Nick doesn’t admit that he’ll have trouble falling asleep anyway. Winding down with his thoughts is like winding up a jack-in-the-box. There’ll be a _pop!_ coming soon, and Nick doesn’t know what that entails. Maybe just another panic fit, maybe just tears- who knows.

He’s laying on the couch now, left arm behind his head, right hand on his sternum. Distantly, he hears the running of Greg’s shower. He wonders, for a moment, about Greg’s scars. There have been times - few and far between - where Nick’s seen the light discoloration at the nape of Greg’s neck. When they had been first healed, there was almost a sheen to the fresh skin. It’s been a good three years since then, but Nick relieved Catherine of her hospital vigil once. He remembers. She’d been a little bit of a mess, yet Greg was a little high on pain meds and had immediately complimented the fit of Nick’s jeans when he’d walked in. Cath thought it best to take her break then.

Nick doesn’t put much thought into that. He’d gathered that there were _mostly_ second-degree burns, that apparently Greg didn’t like the soup there, and that his eyes were “ridiculous”. Greg fell asleep about fifteen minutes into Nick being at his bedside, and Nick left his Get Well card once Catherine returned.

The white noise of the shower has stopped. Nick has that nursery rhyme tune stuck in his head, the one that accompanies those jack-in-the-boxes. _All around the mulberry bush_ … he hums the notes. 

Jesus, he’s tired.

“Nick?” 

He twists to see Greg, backlit by the hallway light, in a different t-shirt (an old Stanford one) and gym shorts. “Saying good night?” 

“Yeah. I make mean pancakes, by the way. We can have some tomorrow.” Greg smiles, and turns to leave, though he hesitates a little. “Good night.”

“‘Night.” Nick waits for the light to completely leave the room, steadies his breath. Exposure therapy, isn’t it? Get used to something? 

So he lays in the dark, breathing deep breaths. In through the nose, out his mouth. His thoughts feel thick, like maple syrup. Greg did mention pancakes… will he even stay for breakfast? That feels extremely domestic, approaching something that makes Nick afraid. 

_A date. He said this was supposed to be like a date._

He falls asleep thinking about how he’d still like some light.

Nick jolts awake twice in the night. He got about two hours of sleep, dreamless yet anxious, before nearly tipping off the side of the couch. He breathes hard- wondering where the hell he’s at, before remembering, before telling himself that he’s not in a glass coffin, he’s on a sofa.

The second time he wakes up after that is due to the same dream he always has. It has its own different cuts - sometimes the ants are what get him, his dreaming mind concluding that his skin’s set on fire in a box, sometimes he pulls the trigger, sometimes he’s on the slab in the morgue and the morgue is filled with dirt, alight with the sick neon green he’s come to loathe.

He’s to the point where his nightmare bores him, and his own terror is exhausting.

Nick only dozes afterwards, not wanting to cause a _scene,_ because he’s had enough of that. He only thinks its lucky for him that he doesn’t dream about Melissa; those ebbed off in college, but that was too long to go with dreaming of her. Waking up his freshman year at A&M, covered in a sheen of sweat, in the middle of his night to his poor roommate asking if it was a nice dream. 

The last time was after that therapist case, after he told Catherine, when he had gone to bed that night and dreamed Melissa - as she had looked the same back when he was a kid, beautiful but so ugly - had waltzed into the interrogation room and he was the one being interrogated -

Well. The box must have cancelled out any nightmares of her. It’s almost funny, save for the tragic fact that it’s just sad, pathetic.

Nick thinks he should start up a different routine. When he worked on the Dallas force - and _God,_ he wasn’t cut out to be a cop, he understands too much - he would hit the gym after shift, tire himself out before he could sleep. And then it was like he was normal. He could go out with women, he could sleep with women, he was fine.

He never told any of them about Melissa, obviously. He wonders, with some vitriol, if he ever would have told Kristy Hopkins. Would she have understood?

Nick folds up the blanket and sheet that were used to make his bed, setting them nicely on the coffee table. He retucks his shirt into his jeans, tightens his belt. At the other side of the apartment, Greg’s sink is on.

He can’t stay for breakfast. He’ll let Greg know that. What can he say to that?

_It’s not you, it’s me, really._

He shoves his shoes on, after finding where drunk him tossed them. 

Greg pops in to the living room, uncombed hair sticking in all directions. He’s still wearing the shorts, though he opted for a hoodie over his Stanford shirt last night. “Good morning. I can get the coffee started-”

“Don’t worry about it.” Nick says, more to the carpet as he’s finishing tying his boot laces. “I need to get home.” He pushes himself up from his knees, turning to see a flash of hurt cross Greg’s face.

He shakes it off for one of confusion. “Are you sure? Because, you know, hangovers. They go well with black coffee. I won’t make you stay to eat.” Nick can hear _even though you should_ at the end of that sentence, but Greg just bounces on his heels of his feet. “Just a cup of coffee, then you don’t have to see me til work.”

Nick can’t help but smile. “I’ll force myself.”

“Good.” Greg seems pleased, and Nick joins him in the kitchen. Surprisingly, Greg doesn’t own one of those French presses (that Nick can see) so his coffee making is a mundane affair.

Knowingly, Greg doesn’t ask how he slept. Instead, he pulls out two black mugs, setting them at the table. 

“When’s the first football game?” He asks, kind of loud and shaky, like he’s been holding it in, maybe even all last night. Nick furrows his brow.

“What?”

“You know, the- for the NFL. Well, for your team. The Cowboys- yeehaw.” Greg mimics a lasso before turning to the coffee pot. Nick can’t believe this - this is the guy, who after four weeks of first working with him, vehemently denounced professional football and “meathead jocks”. Warrick had wound him up tight and let him go. Brass had to be the one to tell Greg to shut up. 

“Uh, well preseason started. First official game is next Sunday. Why?”

Greg turns around with two steaming cups, shrugs. His sweatshirt is an ugly orange, too close to Longhorn burnt orange for Nick’s Aggieland roots to handle.

Greg would look pretty good in maroon, though.

“I might have my own nefarious scheme cooking.” Greg sets a mug in front of him, taking the only other chair at the little table. “Might need a henchman.”

“Hm.” The coffee’s too hot and Nick winces a little bit. “I don’t need any mad scientists ruining my Cowboys games. But… I might let one watch with me.”

He gets a grin, before Greg burns his own mouth, too.

Sometime after eight in Las Vegas, a very rich someone threw a birthday party. With over 500 guests and many gallons of alcohol - from straight shots at the bar to elegant flutes of champagne - there was no doubt that the event would linger, perhaps be unforgettable.

At midnight, there was a balloon and confetti drop. Guests celebrated, until a heel crushed a hand, and a scream pierced through the DJ’s racket.

Greg stands above the body of a young woman. She has highlights in her hair, gloss on her lips. Pieces of confetti, white and gold, decorate her hair, one stuck to her lip. He takes the photographs, hearing Catherine cuss out the fact that any evidence is contaminated or beneath the obscene amount of balloons on the main floor. 

Thank God Grissom is on a different scene with Warrick. The rest of the team is at this venue; Brass is having his guys conduct the endless interviews, with the 500 guests, the staff, management. Brass himself is interviewing a lady that’s dressed as a server, who is completely distressed, tears visible from a distance.

“David’s on his way.” Catherine comes up next to Greg, tossing back her hair. He straightens up, walks around the victim. Her dress was low cut, hitting just above her knees. Lavender, with shimmer thread woven in between.

“Her nails have a French manicure, toes match. No jewelry, but I think she might have been a guest?” Greg ventures. The getup is a little too nightclub to fit with the more black tie dress code, but, maybe.

Catherine shakes her head. “No. Even if she was someone’s arm candy, something doesn’t add up.” She crouches down now in Greg’s stead. “Boob job, I’m guessing. Hers are too round and even. There will likely be some scars come autopsy. And her dress looks nice but…” Her eyes scan over, “Cheap fabric. Mall purchase, I’d say.”

Greg shrugs. “Plastic surgery costs money; these partygoers are obviously loaded.” He knows the last name of the birthday guy - Rosenthal. As in _Lefty_ Rosenthal. Well, the guy’s like, a nephew or something, but that name? In this city? If Greg wasn’t working he’d be dying to talk to him.

Cath gives him a smile that forms the line between seductive and scary. “Sanders, Vegas happens to be a place where a beautiful girl can make a lot of money.” 

He looks back down at their victim. “Oh. You think she danced?”

She gives a nod. “Legs are completely in shape. I don’t think she was working tonight, or before she ended up here. No body glitter.”

Greg scoffs. “What, is that like, a requirement?”

She raised a perfectly plucked eyebrow at him before Nick calls out a “Super Dave! We've been waiting!” from across the ballroom. Greg turns his head to see an out of breath David Philips.

“Sorry- running late.”

There’s a few moments, waiting for the liver temp before David shakes his head. “97 degrees. She’s been dead about an hour.” Gently, he cradles her head, feeling around. “No blood, no obvious external signs of foul play.”

“Preliminary cause of death?” Catherine folds her arms, looking over to where Nick and Sara are casing the perimeter. 

David forces open an eyelid. “Pupils dilated - could mean a number of things. We’ll know more after the autopsy.”

Cath nods. “Thanks, David.”

Greg and Catherine stand out of the way while their victim is lifted up onto a gurney. Brass chooses that moment to head over to them; Greg’s always been kind of intimidated by him, though it’s faded over the years. Brass mercilessly teased him during the transition to the field, but congratulated him (in that dry, Jersey way) all the same.

“Catherine, Sanders,” He nods, holding up his notepad. “Victim’s name is Elena Thomas. Her friend-” He gestures behind him towards the server, who seems to now be biting her nails. “Sydney said she was trying to calm her down in one of the back rooms. Said Elena seemed completely out of it.”

Catherine looks towards their now witness. “I’ll go over with you for her statement. Gonna take a few more hours to clear this place. Greg, why don’t you help Sara?”

“No problem, boss lady.” Greg catches her eye roll and half-smile before walking towards where Nick and Sara are. Nick flashes his teeth before holding his hand out to stop him.

“Whoa, there. Sara and I think we found where the victim came from.” Behind him, Sara’s dusting an employee only entrance. 

“Brass got her name- Elena Thomas. One of her friends is a server here. How do you two know she came in this way?”

“Eyewitness testimony, Greg.” Sara turns her head, that all-knowing look on her face. “Pushed past a bunch of people that were at these tables, standing up for the confetti drop.” 

Greg looks at Nick, who nods, before asking, “And you have neon pink fingerprint powder- why?”

Sara fights a laugh. “I kind of wish they’d play some music. What do you say, Nick? Some Britney Spears?”

Nick coughs, pointedly not looking at Greg when he spins around. He knew it would happen!

“I’ll have you know, dear Sara, Sara to whom I’ve shown nothing but respect-”

“Is that what you call it?”

“ _Respect_ and terrible flirting-”

Nick is outwardly laughing right now, and Greg groans. “Does Warrick know?”

Sara shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know, he might.”

They clear the scene by 5AM. Greg asks Nick if he told Warrick, to which he gets another cheeky shrug. He’s _ruined._

Lefty Rosenthal’s nephew - or cousin or something - stuck around the entire time, sending the cops and CSIs on their way. Brass, ever bitter about the founding fathers of Sin City, bitches about the likelihood this being related to the Mafia. 

“What did Warrick catch?” Greg asks at the lab parking lot, grabbing his case. The photos will have to be processed, and along with likely joining Catherine in the morgue, that’s what Greg is sure will take up the rest of his day. Sara closes the trunk door, Nick stepping out the front.

“Double murder on the Sam Boyd field- UNLV.” Nick shakes his head. “Pretty sure it was the star player and his girlfriend.”

Damn. Between the obvious publicity of _that,_ along with a party for a mob relative, the Sheriff’s gonna be all over their asses since they’ll be high profile. Nick opens the door for him and Sara both, following them in.

“Mandy’s gonna have a nice time.” Sara waves her case in front of her. “What are you getting started on?” She asks Nick.

“Database run; see if she knew anyone at this party. Or why anyone wouldn’t cop to knowing her. She may have been a working girl.” 

Greg doubts it. That type of crowd would have had their escorts dressed to the nines, probably made them blend in with the wives and mistresses. He waves at Sara as she’s off to process, and Nick thumps him on the shoulder. “Hey!”

“You still interested in that Dallas game?”

Nick hadn’t stuck around much longer after coffee that morning, but Greg had lead him out to the front door where Nick hesitated before squeezing their hands together. “See you later.” He’d said, back turned as he was walking away.

Greg had felt like he was in a fucking Jane Austen novel. It was amazing.

“Oh, I’m only interested in certain things Dallas has to offer, but yeah, the game. I can watch a football game.” Greg answers, obviously lying which Nick knows. 

“Uh-huh.” Nick turns to step into Hodges’s territory. He mentioned he had to get a copy of a report for an older case that’s getting into pre-trial. He also has to be the one to tell Hodges he’ll be in court. Greg doesn’t envy that at all. “You can come over to my place for it. I’ll probably invite Warrick, too.”

That can work. That can definitely work. “Alright, sounds like a plan.”

Greg’s in a good mood, even after the post-op. Doc Robbins is positive the cause of death was a subarachnoid hemorrhage- a brain bleed, causing a type of stroke. It’s likely that she was struck from up to a few hours to a few days before death. Blunt force triggers the bleeding, and Elena Thomas dies from a slow bleed.

It’s just sad.

He’s gotten back from the morgue, fixing his zip-up jacket over his dress shirt when Warrick Brown, handsome Warrick Brown, _infuriating_ Warrick Brown, looks up from where he’s speaking with Archie. Great. Warrick _and_ Archie.

“Hit me, baby, one more time!” Warrick says in that smooth way of his, looking Greg up and down, now gesturing with the case file in his hand. “I’ll be damned, Sanders.”

Archie chuckles. “Well, she _is_ hot.”

“Thank you.” Greg says, feeling smug for a moment. Warrick shakes his head, letting Greg by before just one more tease.

“Think you can wear the pigtails for me?”

Greg flips him off.

Grissom catches him in the breakroom about ten minutes later. “We’re going to the station. Where’s Nick?”

Greg, trying to enjoy a fruit cup, speaks with his mouth full. “He, uh- went with Catherine.” He finishes the rest of his snack, tosses it in the break room trash. “Elena Thomas - our victim - worked at a strip club.”

Grissom shrugs. “Brass called. A woman walked into his precinct and wanted to talk about Chris Taylor.”

“What?”

Grissom side eyes him. “A witness, Greg. Wants to talk about the last time she saw him- the last time anyone, at this moment, saw him.”

The case was on the verge of slowing down. According to their (his _obsessive_ ) timeline, it's about a month til the next victim. Greg wants to catch this guy - person - before they have to rely on another body. No personal effects, no fingerprints, no trace, no hair. 

He hopes this witness is reliable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll notice I extended the chapters to 25 instead of 20! I think that's a more realistic idea of how long this fic will be. I have my outlines, but they may change again.


	7. seven.

Greg isn’t really big on the police station; it’s different from being in the lab, and it’s certainly different from being in the field. But much like the lab, glass panels keep privacy at a minimum, and that allows Grissom and Greg to see their witness before she can do the same.

She’s sitting with Brass in the waiting area; probably more comfortable than one of the interview rooms, which gives people the impression they’ve done something wrong. The metal table and large, conspicuous two-way mirror are interrogation room classics; the boring, cheap gray seats of the lobby are actually more inviting.

Brass’s face relaxes on spotting the two- on spotting Grissom, more like. Greg wonders if Brass will ever have a shred of respect for him, past caring about his safety in the field. Greg Sanders is still trying to shake the lab-rat-turned-field-mouse status. 

“Miss Kane, this is Mr. Grissom and Mr. Sanders with the crime lab. They’re working on Chris’ case.”

This “Miss Kane” is petite, with stringy blonde hair and wearing an oversized men’s flannel. Her eyes are red rimmed and a little shiny. Whether it’s due to emotions or something else. Greg can’t pinpoint. He takes a seat across from Brass, who’s sitting next to her.

Grissom gives Brass a look, taking his glasses out of his front shirt pocket. “Miss Kane, I believe you told Captain Brass here that you saw Christopher Taylor at a bar last week? Do you recall the place?”

Warily looking at Brass, Miss Kane nods and answers. “Yeah. Linetta’s Old Place, down near the corner of the Strip and Fremont. I don’t know the numbers, I just, um, know where to turn.”

Greg leans towards Grissom. “The tow place guy would only say Chris’ car was impounded off Fremont.” Had they had the bar name sooner, questioning would have been done. But people forget or misplace paperwork, inadvertently throwing wrenches into law enforcement. Grissom gives a minute nod; Greg’s eyes focus on their witness again.

“I know Chris from the uh, the shelter.” She looks at Brass again, who (having shed his bluntness and overall hardassery), reassures her she’s doing just fine. “I, um, I’m well known there, I guess?” Miss Kane nervously laughs. “Chris always helped me with my stuff, always tried to understand me. He originally set me up with an AA group. All women, too, because he knew I didn’t like being around men much.”

“But you liked Chris, yes?” Grissom’s question has that underlying curiosity, like Grissom doesn’t know he’s likable; at the very least, people are drawn to him. Greg can make a few guesses as to why, but he wonders if Grissom even knows, either.

Their witness nods. “Chris was sweet. He never took any shit anybody threw at him, but he wasn’t ever violent. I liked him because he would tell me horror stories about his drinking days, and I- I got that. That’s why I was surprised he even showed up at that bar.” She shrugs, sniffs. Brass pats her forearm. Grissom continues on in his no-nonsense questioning.

“Did he know you were there?”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s why he showed, I figured out. He was worried I’d go out on another bender and wander back to my ex’s house or something stupid like that. I’d had a bad week, like, my credit cards kept declining and my sister wasn’t letting me stay with her… y’know, I just wanted something. I told him to fuck off.” At this, her voice tightens, a shine underneath her nose is noticeable, and she chokes on a sob, wiping her eyes with a flannel sleeve. “I should have just had him take me down to one of the churches or something, like-”

“Miss Kane,” Brass interrupts, not wanting the distraction of guilt to impede her at the moment, “Lydia, don’t blame yourself for anything that was out of your control, alright? Did Chris leave you alone after that?”

Lydia Kane nods, gulping down some breaths of air. “Y-yes. He told me he’d keep watch, fight his sobriety, too. He went over to the booths and sat by himself. That was… to my left. A guy tried to take an order, I think. Chris didn’t get anything. But I… I remember some girls tried getting him to come over with them.” She’s staring off at one of the opposing chair legs, as though that contains the memories of the bar. Tear tracks trail over the blotches on her cheeks.

“He sat by me again by the time I had my… sixth beer. I was starting to get pissed. Another girl grabbed his arm, said some… uh, stuff to him. I think he walked her over to her friends because she was so sloppy. But I know when he sat back down he had a drink with him. I’ve never seen him drink before.” Lydia’s voice trails off, and she snaps her attention to Grissom. “I can’t remember why he would have taken a drink.”

Grissom doesn’t want to - at least not now - focus on that, obviously. “Was there anything odd about when he left?”

She nods. “He left with somebody, but I can’t… it wasn’t a guy, I’m sure. She had long hair and was leaning on him… but I think she was a blonde? Or a redhead, because this redhead had been trying to talk him up before.”

Greg catches Grissom’s eye. A woman suspect. Something clicks in his brain, something that’s slipped him. 

He looks at Lydia’s hands: short, unpolished nails. Nails like that wouldn’t leave deep, crescent indentations on skin. But long nails, manicured…

There’s abrasions on the knuckles of his right hand. Catherine chewed him out pretty good for losing his temper- Nick didn’t hit anybody, unless he’d really want Grissom’s jaw to tighten, his eyes to go hard.  _ Disappointed _ .

But Elena Thomas’s boss is one of  _ those _ . Those men who want their hooks in every woman that walks through their place of business, to own each step, each breath. He mouthed off to Catherine, called her a bitch, “bitter about crows feet and sagging-”.

Nick had struck the wall next to the guy’s head.

Catherine now throws the SUV in park, looking over with her shades covering her glare. “Do you honestly believe I haven’t heard that bullshit before?”

He frowns, looks at the face of the crime lab, feeling scolded. “That ain’t it. He said it and I was there.”

“Nicky, you’re not some hero on a white horse. I know you care about me, but don’t think I can’t handle myself. You know how to act with suspects.”

Does he?

Nick shrugs, flexing his hand. Catherine sets her jaw, before smirking, falling back into her seat. “You wanna be a gentleman? Open my door.”

He cracks, grinning, and obliges.

There’s the bustle of the lab more familiar with the day shift, though a few grave techs and CSIs linger. Archie, however, is sane and gives Nick a two-fingered salute on his way out.

He’s itching to know where Warrick’s at on his double-homicide when the familiar crackle of too-loud-music, blasting through headphones, makes him pause. Nick peeks in the door to the garage, where he finds Greg, blue coat on, banging his head, freeing a gelatin torso from a mold.

_ Be! Obscene! Be- be- obscene! _

Nick can discern (somehow) the mockery of a cheer chant between metal riffs. What’s that one guy Greg would never shut up about a few years back? 

Manson. Right. Like the crazy California nut.

He sneaks right up on Greg only to lean his elbow right on the mold casing, in his line of sight. Greg’s eyes widen, but his lips turn up in pleasure as he settles the headphones on his neck.

“That better be made out of scrap gel, man. Ecklie will throw a fit.”

Greg clicks his tongue. “Oh, keep doubting me, Stokes. I’ll surprise you. Why do you think he’s half-yellow and clear?” He waves a hand like he’s the presenter gal on Wheel of Fortune, revealing his Frankenstein gel creation.

Nick whistles. “Budgetarily conscious.”

Greg snaps his rubber gloves towards him, barely allowing Nick time to bat them away. He already feels the tension in his shoulders relaxing. “Uh-huh. I seem to recall an instance where you and Warrick made a whole jelly dummy right in front of Ecklie.”

Nick has the decency to blush, drop his head. “We had to reenact the theory. All for the case.”

“Mhmm.” Greg shuffles, causing Nick to look up and see what’s what. He’s peering at a series of photos. Nick shifts and straightens up, moving to Greg’s side.

It’s the pictures taken of Chris Taylor, pre-op. Close shots of the face. Abrasions on the vic’s left cheek. One mark near his mouth.

“Fingernails. What do you need a mold for?”

At this question, Greg’s ears turn pink. “They’re deeper than what trimmed nails would leave. And along with a witness statement-”

“There was a witness statement?”

Greg nods. “You were with Catherine.”

And he was about to commit assault. Right. Nick’s kept up with the facts of the serial the best he can, but it’s like he wants to be disconnected from it. There’s something underneath the factual surface that’s lurking, and he has no idea what.

“Anyway, according to this witness, she has a good idea that Chris Taylor left with a woman. So I thought, hey, there’s a pretty good chance the deeper wounds can be from a manicure.”

“So…” Nick drawls this out with his lips pursed, arms crossed. “Either you’re going to get your nails done to do a few tests, or you’re gonna get Cath or Sara to help you?”

The dejected sigh answers Nick’s question, and he chuckles. “How are you going to explain that charge, huh?”

Greg shoots him a look. “Have you never had a girlfriend that bought fake nails?”

Nick leaves that alone, popping over to see Greg slide on a thicker vinyl glove onto his left hand. “Do me a favor and lay jelly man on the floor.”

“Wow, using me for my muscle.” Nick complies, now back at the stage of confused, watching Greg super glue on fake nails to a glove.

“How do you know that’s the right length?” He’s seen women with various acrylics, different shapes, too, which is strange. He was under the impression there was only that kind - French - that was a little square, not too long, classy white tips. The fake nails Greg’s gluing on are a little longer, tapering off to a round point.

Greg concentrates on pressing down the nails. “Asked David his opinion. Rechecked the photos. It’s not gonna be completely accurate, but I think this is a safe bet. Because of the-” He stands over jelly man (jelly torso, more like), before placing his knees at the sides. “-crescent shapes of the marks, the nails can’t have that straight-across tip. I chose these-” He wiggles his fingers. “Because-”

“You like green?” These are a hideous, rave neon color of green, like a highlighter. Nick wouldn’t even know where to begin to find anything like them. 

“Shh! I am thinking like a genius CSI here. They taper off, probably easier to cut skin when you press down.” Nails dry, Greg places his right hand at the neck of jelly man. “Chris Taylor must have been sober enough to fight back a little, because she- the killer- had to clamp a hand down over his mouth.” He digs his left hand into the face, the palm and thumb over the mouth, presses down hard.

Nick nods along - what a ridiculous method, but it works. “Leaves the deeper impressions. We’d have to get a clearer idea of body type, though.”

Greg’s inspecting his work, peeling off the nail glove, and furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if the woman is of average build, about 5’7”, maybe 150 to 160 pounds, would having one hand on the throat have killed him?”

Greg mulls this over. “She would have started with two. And he was heavily intoxicated.” He’s staring down at jelly man, as if the torso of mixed ballistics gel will offer more wisdom than the likely conclusion the killer had gone to a salon.

Nick shrugs, offering a hand to get Greg back up. He makes his way for the door, though not leaving yet. He has to check in with Cath, go over Elena Thomas’s post-op. “I’m not doubting your idea, you know. Just make sure you don’t go chasing some white rabbit.” He nods at the gelatin torso. 

A woman serial killer. Nick crosses the threshold out back into the hall. Most serials had an underlying, sexual predation, yet Robbins is thorough in his examinations. No vaginal secretions or signs of penetration. These victims hadn’t had consensual sex, and weren’t assaulted, during the periods they were missing. They’re random victims, though. Most woman killers go after something personal.

Something’s not right about this case. 

Grissom is studying a pair of cleats and a pair of panties - okay - when Greg (having disposed accordingly of the gelatin torso) breezes in, hanging off the doorway. He’s always liked the light up table. “Hey.”

Grissom looks up, and sometimes Greg would like to believe his supervisor doesn’t have a sixth sense. It’s hard not to think that, because Grissom calls him out immediately. 

“You’re working on our serial.”

Greg lets off the doorframe. “I am pretty sure we’ll be looking for a woman.”

“Female serial killers are rare. Exceptional, even.”

Good. He’s not refuting the idea. Greg swims a little deeper.

“That’s just a general mindset. I believe the contusions made on Chris Taylor’s face came from a set of acrylic nails. I’d forgotten about them until Lydia Kane’s statement.”

Grissom’s lips thin, and maybe Greg’s drowning-

“I believe she made an honest statement. However, no jury’s likely to hear it due to her recovering alcoholism. We have no DNA to suggest our suspect would be female. The inebriation can suggest a need to overpower these men, which lends credibility to your theory.”

The words settle. Greg life his brows. “Well, we can’t just sit around for the next-” He waves a hand in frustration, lifting his arm to gesture at the corner. “Ken doll piece to be stuck in a man’s throat. The evidence is suggesting I’m in the right direction.”

“Greg,” Grissom turns in his seat. “I am not here to approve or disapprove of your thought process. You don’t need that.”

He reddens; God, Grissom can really make or break someone’s day. Greg’s pretty sure Grissom is oblivious as shit to that objective fact. “You took apart a Ken, right? Two arms, two legs, a torso and a head? Don’t you think we could be looking at three more victims?”

Grissom doesn’t say anything for one long moment, picking up a pair of tweezers.

“I think Christopher Taylor is the focus right now. Future victims or not.”

Greg hopes Catherine kicks that man’s ass one day. He’s had a feeling she’s wanted to do it for years.

Elena Thomas’s autopsy results have subdued Nick, the anger he felt towards her jackass of a boss a simmer. A slow bleed, caused by a blow to the head from either a few hours to a full two days prior to her death ultimately killed her. In his gut, which Grissom protests is never a proper conclusion, Nick knows who hit Elena.

Warrick ambushes him in the hallway.

“Please tell me you’re feeling breakfast.” He says, shirt a little wrinkled, smelling of a fresh spritz of cologne. Nick hasn’t seen him for a little over a full day; the press has just announced the UNLV double murder, so he was under the impression Warrick and Griss would be under the Sheriff’s scrutiny.

“I could eat.” He hasn’t had anything since a visit to the vending machines around 2AM. He’s also pretty sure that normal people would be going out for lunch.

“Alright. I’m stealing Sara and Sanders, too.”

Nick twists up a grin. “Not gonna invite Mom and Dad?”

Warrick rolls his eyes, headed for Judy’s desk (secretaries know all). “Well  _ Mom _ , last I heard, was having a little spat with  _ Dad _ .”

Nick winces. Catherine’s been Grissom’s equal since the beginning, pretty much. Yet, everyone knows Grissom can’t see what’s in front of him, and Catherine often has to take the bull by the horns. 

Or she’s on him for being an unintentional idiot. It happens.

Sara’s pulling her hair back and tugging on a plain t-shirt over a tank top when Nick says Warrick’s taking them out to eat. 

“As in, he’s paying?” She shakes the exhaustion from her shoulders, grabbing a jacket. Nick puts his palms up.

“Hey, he didn’t say that. But it’s been awhile since we were together.” And he feels like that’s his blame to bear. There were a handful of offers for squad breakfasts and dinners after he was cleared, but he just… couldn’t. 

Sara gives him a knowing look, that one that feels like she can see straight through a person, before nodding. “Sure. It’d be nice to remember how much you guys need me.”

He follows her out to the hall. “We remind you every day, don’t we?”

There’s a general understanding, once they meet up at the diner, hopping out of their respective vehicles, that they’re not gonna talk shop. Nick spots the telltale signs of Warrick being stressed, which is pretty stupid, coming from him.

He guesses everyone’s been having a difficult few months, overall.

“Isn’t there some reunion coming up for you, Greg?” Sara asks, squeezed next to Nick. Greg’s on the inside of Warrick’s bench, and he hunches his shoulders, wryly smiling into the table. Their drinks are on the way, having not decided on what to order yet. Warrick bumps Greg’s shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah, a lot of my graduating class want to meet back up in San Diego next month. I don’t think I’ll go.”

Nick flicks a piece of napkin, balled up, at Warrick, who immediately retaliates by knocking his boot into his shin. Sara snickers. “Why not, G? Everyone else go off to be a doctor or something? Don’t wanna tell people you’re a CSI?”

Greg sends him a look that tells Nick he may have been a little too much with the tease. He’ll apologize once they’re alone.

It should freak him out to know that it’s certain they’ll be alone more often.

“It’s not that- I’ve changed quite a bit since then, y’know. I don’t want to act like I’m 20 again just to hang out with people I met when I was 20. So…” Greg perks back up when the waitress joins them. Warrick catches Nick’s eye, and gives him a half-smile that Nick’s too slow to realize spells trouble for him.

“Well, speaking of college…” Warrick takes a sip of his tea -  _ that he didn’t put any sugar in _ , a Southern cardinal sin in Nick’s book - and looks over at Sara and Greg, who haven’t been privy to nearly as much of Nick’s college bullshit. Nick preemptively grimaces. “Nick stole his school’s mascot.”

“What?” Sara turns to Nick as Greg’s eyebrows raise and he leans forward.

“It wasn’t that, exactly, okay?” Nick glares at Warrick, not meaning it, and rolls his shoulders back, getting ready to tell a tale of he and his frat brothers’ special brand of dumbassery. “The Aggies have an official mascot, right? She’s a collie, purebred and expensive as hell.”

“ _ God. _ ” Sara mutters, fully against the type of university life rampant in their country, but Nick knows she’s interested. 

“Her name’s Miss Reveille, and the mascot company kids are the ones that take care of her. They have to-” He tries not to laugh, because Texas tradition and all that, “They have to address her as Miss Rev, ma’am, because she’s the cadet general-”

“You’re fucking with us.” Greg says, eyes bright and pretty much leaning over Warrick. Nick guesses Warrick didn’t want to upset Greg with his reunion. 

“Absolutely not! Anyway, Miss Rev has her own handler, a sophomore cadet. And it so happens that the cadet has to take her everywhere- including dates.” Sara’s shaking her head already. 

“You took your date’s dog?” She’s grinning, that kind that really shows how pretty she is. Nick’s missed talking to these guys, about anything, and he shakes his head.

“Nah, I had a girlfriend at the time.” Her name was Candice and last he heard she was a teacher at an alternative school in Irving. “My buddy Josh was the one that took the cadet - I think her name was Fiona - out. To be fair, he did take her out to a real nice steakhouse. Pretty sure they got free dessert ‘cause of Miss Rev.”

They’re momentarily interrupted with the arrival of food, and Nick busies himself with a few fries before Sara’s sharp little elbow nudges him. “Okay, okay. So, Josh and Fiona get out to the parking lot, right? Six of us have been parked out there, in my truck, for about an hour. Me and another guy go around Josh’s car, and Miss Rev notices us.Fiona thinks we’re messing around with Josh, and I’m the one that’s making sure Miss Rev isn’t stressed out or anything.”

“So how’d you steal the dog if her handler was there? Sounds like Josh needed to be the perfect gentleman.” Greg takes a bite of burger, and Nick nods. 

“We weren’t gonna… uh, bother Fiona, like that. She was real sweet. Josh was still a freshman, so we claimed we were doing some post-orientation hazing, and that he had to take Miss Rev’s bandana for our frat. She said she’d take Miss Rev to our house as long as she was there.” Nick now has the decency to blush. “And uh, here’s where we get to be kind of douchebags.”

Warrick’s laughing into his unsweetened tea. “Nick ran off with the dog.”

“She liked me! We used to have collies at the ranch, and I had a pocket full of beef jerky. So I bolted to the truck, after I finally just picked up the dog. She barked a little but calmed down once everyone in my truck gave her attention. Fiona was pissed, I know that. Anyway, long story short, we get to the frat house, let Miss Rev run around a bit, and a campus police car shows up… everyone’s coach was so pissed.” Nick shakes his head, though his team laughing with him is a sound he wants to get used to again.

“What was the verdict for you guys? Something super fitting, huh?” Sara pops a tomato cherry into her mouth. Nick shrugs, catching Greg’s eyes. 

“Community service around campus. But we sure were popular around school. Dumb as hell.” He throws his chin at Warrick. “Happy?”

“Hey, what? It’s a good story. You told me that when your Cowboys were sucking shit last year.” Warrick challenges, before immediately changing tune and setting his sights on Greg. “Speakin’ of which, when did you start wanting to watch football?”

Greg colors, and Nick wants to kick Warrick under the table. “Well, I wanted… to give it a chance. Am I not invited to the macho shindig?”

Warrick smiles. “Nah, just know I’ll be giving you so much shit. You’ll get a pop quiz, after, baby. I don’t mess around with stats.”

Greg smiles, more so at his plate than anything, and Nick is selfish enough to think it’s meant for him. “I can live with that.”

It turns out to be a good day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for everyone's patience! College is taking up more time than I'd like, but I'll still be working on this fic when I can.  
> I haven't watched CSI in a couple months, and I really hope that it doesn't show in this chapter. It feels a little stale to me, which I apologize for.


End file.
